ill 


UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS: 


EDITED  BY 


PROF.  B ,  National  Observatory. 


•  Time  driveth  onward  fast : 


And  in  a  little  while,  our  lips  are  dumb. 

LOTOS  EATECI. 


NEW- YORK : 

D.  AFPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  200  BROADWAY, 
AND  16  LITTLE  BRITAIN,  LONDON. 

1352. 


ENTERED  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S52,  by 
1).  APPLETON  &  CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District 
of  New-York. 


JOHN  F.  TROW, 
PRINTER   AND   STEREOTYPES, 

49  Ann-Street 


DEAR  READER: 

IT  is  scarcely  necessary  to  repeat 
to  you  the  some-time  discussions  which  have  been 
had  in  regard  to  the  publication  of  these  letters. 
Time,  in  giving  them  a  certain  perspective,  has 
also  removed  any  unpleasant  doubt  as  to  the  propri 
ety  of  showing  them  to  whoever  will  care  to  read. 
A  friend  suggests  that  they  should  be  called  "  Up- 
Sky  Letters,"  and  when  you  come  upon  a  page 
which  offers  you  no  special  point  or  purport,  it 
may  be  charitable  to  read  it  as  "  up-sky,"  keeping 
your  sky, — for  tone's  sake, — over  the  Up-Country. 
A  few  passages  in  a  letter  of  late  date  from 
Pundison  House,  may  be  pertinent.  I  give  the 
following : 

2063525 


4  EDITORIAL. 

"  I  am  now  so  occupied,  my  dear  B ,  "with 

health  and  something  to  do,  that  my  foregone  ob 
jections  to  the  book  seem  as  unimportant  as  the 
letters  themselves.  The  world  rolls,  and  we  roll 
with  it  into  new  moods  and  postures. 

"  Briefly,  sir  :  the  letters  are  trifles.  If  you 
choose  to  throw  them  up  to  the  wind,  I  do  not 
know  that  there  is  any  bad  seed  in  them  that  will 
grow  into  mischief;  but  they  will  scarcely  grow 
corn  or  potatoes. 

{i  I  may  have  anticipated — long  ago — that  those 
papers  would,  some  day,  be  gathered  together  ;  but 
now — I  look  back  upon  the  few  past  years  as  upon 
a  dream-vista,  from  which  I  am  happily  escaped. 
Dreams  are  very  well,  but  action  is  better.  And 
illness  has  its  uses,  but  health  only  is  glorious,  and 
the  fulfilment  of  God's  design. 

"  Do  as  you  please.  To  those  who  are  in  the 
same  invalid  and  dilapidated  condition  in  which 
the  letters  were  written, — those  who  are  hedged 
within  a  small  round  of  sameness  and  watching, — 
there  may  be  some  amusement  in  observing  how 
another  in  the  same  condition  has  managed  to  get 
on. 


EDITORIAL.  5 

"  Except  that  I  am  now  so  busy,  I  should  expect 
to  feel  an  occasional  twinge,  at  the  sight  of  things 
not  so  pleasant  in  type,  as  in  the  writing  :  for  it  is 
astonishing  how  much  one  can  say  or  write  to-day, 
which  to-morrow,  or  next  week,  he  would  like  to 
withdraw,  or  say  with  a  difference.  But  life,  with 
me,  is  too  short  for  niceties  of  this  kind,  Let  us 
travel  on." 

I  can  add  nothing  that  will  be  of  use.  The 
only  changes  which  have  been  made,  are  in  the 
names  of  persons  and  places. 

Respectfully, 

THE  EDITOR. 

National  Observatory,  I 

Washington,  April,  1852.  f 


CONTENTS. 


PAG  2. 

I.  ISRAEL :  AND  THE  MAN  IN  THE  OBSERVATORY..  18 

II.  PROPOSALS, 19 

III.  PUNDISON  HOUSE, 23 

IV.  UP-COUNTRY  SUNDAY, 28 

V.  MONDAY  MORNING, 38 

VI.  MONDAY  EVENING, 44 

THE  LONG  HOUSE, 47 

VII.  THE  PUNDISON  DOGS, 52 

VIII.  DRIVE  TO  THE  BRYARS' 57 

THE  LATE  DR. , 62 

IX.  SUNDAY  NIGHT, 69 

X.  FRANK, 76 

XI.  T.  AND  THE  SECTOR, 80 

XII.  MIDSUMMER, 84 

XIII.  THE  STORM, 87 

XIV.  FRANZ  AND  MR.  P.  EIVERIZING, 00 

XV.  SUMMER  WEATHER, 95 

XVI.  "  THANKSGIVING  "  BY  FRANK, 97 

XVII.  THE  HAMMOCK  AND  THE  PLA.CER, 102 


8 


PAGE. 

XVIII.    THE  SEA-SIDE, 105 

LETTER  FROM  FRANK  IN  THE  CITY.  THE  KUM- 

BREATHER, 107 

LETTER  FROM  FRANK  IN  THE  CITY.  THE  BIRTH 
DAY,  Ill 

2nttmin. 

I.    THE  DARK  DAYS, 117 

POSTSCRIPT.    ARRIVAL  OF  TIDY, 110 

II.    PUNDISON  HOUSE  IN  NOVEMBER, 122 

III.  BURGLARS:    KATE  AND  BOB, 127 

IV.  THE  LAST  OF  NOVEMBER, 132 


SKnttt. 

I.  METHOD  AT  PUNDISON  HOUSE.    LAWS  AND  EEO- 

ULATIONS 141 

II.    FEET-POUNDING  :    STAR-CATCHING, 147 

III.  TIB  AND  GOOD-BYE  TO  JENNY, 152 

IV.  TALK  WITH  THE  PROFESSOR, 153 

V.    T. :  JOY  :    LADY  MIRIAM, 164 

VI.  NEWS  FROM  FRANK, 1C9 

VII.  FRANK'S  LOG-BOOK  I.., 172 

VIII.     THANKSGIVING, 1S3 

IX.     FRANK'S  LOG— II., 194 

X.     LADY  MIRIAM'S  VISIT, 203 

XI.    SUNDAY  NIGHT  SPECULATIONS, 209 

XII.    FRANK'S  LOG— III, 213 

XIII.    SINGING  "CHINA," £24 


PAGE. 

XIV.    NEW-YEAR'S  DAY,  '51, 238 

XV.    PROTEST, 243 

XVI.  Biz  :    BUM, 246 

XVII.  VULGARITY  OF  HEALTH, 249 

XVIII    NEURALGIA, 253 

XIX.    THE  OLD  CLOCK, 258 

XX.  TIDY, 263 

XXI.  THE  TIBLING, 267 

XXII.    THE  LATE  MORNING, 271 

XXIII.  MR.  PUNDISON'S  GRANDFATHER, 276 

XXIV.  THE  OLD  CONNECTICUT  SUNDAY, 282 

XXV.    VISIT  TO  LADY  M.  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN, 290 

XXVL    DKIVE  SLOW, 302 

Spring. 

I.    SPRING, 809 

LETTER  FROM  FRANK  AT  PARIS, 310 

Do.                   Do.            Do 314 

II.    His  ARRIVAL  HOME, 316 

His  GOOD-BYE, 318 

III.  His  DEPARTURE, 321 

IV.  THE  MORNING  AFTER, 323 

V.    THE  FUNERAL 325 

VI.     Aomo, 330 


Iminnm 


UP-COUNTRY  LETTERS 


I. 


Israel  -    — ,  »itir  tire  (niesur. 

Pundis,.n  House,  Up-Country,  I 
June  — ,  1650.  > 

DEAR  PROF.  : — Have  you  any  friend  whose  presence 
is  as  a  cordial  to  you — a  tonic — a  fortifier ;  who  builds 
great  walls  about  you  against  the  enemy ;  who  lifts 
you  when  you  fall,  and  strengthens  your  knee-joints ; 
who  is  as  a  mountain  against  all  moral  north-easters 
and  unexplainable  calamities;  .who  brings  to  you  al 
ways  calm  weather  ? 

Such  a  friend  I  had  last  winter,  whom  I  had  not 
seen  or  heard  from  during  the  last  fifteen  years. 
Hearing  that  he  was  in  these  parts,  I  besought  him 
to  come  up  and  compare  notes.  I  did  this  not  with 
out  some  fear  and  trembling,  that  I  should  not  see 


14  UP-COUNTRY   LETTKIIS. 

my  old  acquaintance,  but  only  certain  ruins,  as  it 
were,  and  distant  hints  of  what  had  been.  I  said  to 
myself,  some  one  will  knock  and  I  shall  open  the  door, 
and  seeing  a  tall  strange-looking  man,  I  shall  not  know 
my  old  friend.  But  it  was  not  so.  I  did  open  the 
door,  and  put  eyes  upon  the  undoubted  Israel.  It  was 
he,  or,  if  you  please,  it  was  him,  and  I  was  I ;  so  at 
least  he  was  pleased  to  intimate. 

Looking  sharply  upon  him,  came  back  to  my 
memory  that  same  strange  and  slightly  quizzical 
look,  now  so  sharp  and  well-defined,  then  only  sha 
dowed  forth  in  his  boy-features.  Then  the  boy,  now 
the  man.  And  it  was  pleasant  to  find  a  man  who 
has  decided  that  two  and  two  are  four ;  who  has  no 
scrupulous  doubts  that  three  times  five  are  fifteen ! 
A  man  of  facts  and  opinions,  and  principles,  and  not 
of  fragments  of  such,  which  make  up  the  composition 
of  most  people  in  these  wise  days. 

Ah,  how  we  did  talk,  sir!  all  day  and  all  the 
long  evening,  we  ceased  not  till  the  week  was  gone, 
,  Outdoors  the  air  was  keen  as  a  two-edged  sword, 
so  we  piled  on  the  wood  and  the  anthracite  and  talked, 
Don't  speak  of  eating  and  drinking,  sir,  to  a  man 
who  is  hungry  for  a  talk.  Remind  us  of  no  com 
mon  appetites.  My  friend  Israel  and  I  are  having 


ISRAEL  AND  THE  PROFESSOR.    15 

a  talk — say  rather  an  illumination ;  a  bonfire,  into 
which  we  throw  all  old  prejudices  and  roots  of  error 
and  get  at  the  mere  common  sense  of  things, — the  sim 
ple  statement — the  original  announcement — the  base  of 
the  pyramid. 

Like  yourself,  my  friend  is  a  Professor.     He  expounds 

the  mathematics,  and  so  forth,  in College,  in  one 

of  the  great  States  of  the  West.  Only  for  this,  and  his 
wife  and  young  Israels,  I  would  have  kept  him :  I  would 
have  enacted  a  higher  law  that  he  should  stay  in  these 
parts  for  the  rest  of  his  days.  My  friend  seemed  built 
for  years  of  rough-and-tumbling ;  at  least,  more  so  than 
myself.  His  temperament  also  favors  him.  His  calm 
weather  will  be  to  him  as  a  score,  at  least.  May  he 
live  as  long  as  he  desires,  and  find  fair  weather  whenever 
he  travels.  We  did  the  best  we  could  to  keep  him ; 
gave  him  our  room,  and  retired  ourselves  to  the  north 
room.  I  did  not  dislike  the  change.  The  windows 
look  north  and  east,  and  the  sunrise  came  blazing  in 
every  morning  in  a  way  that  was  delightful.  I  remarked 
also  to  Mrs.  P.  that  our  advantages  in  seeing  northern 
lights  in  that  room,  would  be  very  great.  Like  the  sun 
rise,  the  north  star  looked  directly  upon  us. 

Being  slightly  given  to  questionable  wanderings  in 
speculative  matters,  it  was  pleasant  to  feel  my  friend 


16  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS 

pulling  at  my  coat-tail  occasionally,  to  get  me  down  in 
a  safer  and  healthier  air.  It's  of  no  use,  he  would  say, 
pleasantly,  you  wilLonly  get  lost  and  have  infinite  trouble 
and  path-searching  to  get  home  again.  You  will  drop 
down  in  the  night  in  a  strange  country,  and  somebody 
perhaps,  bringing  a  hasty  candle  to  your  balloon,  will 
blow  you  up.  Stay  at  home,  sir,  and  be  content,  and 
when  you  have  an  impossible  question,  ask  your  dog 
Rover,  and  he  will  give  you  as  good  a  reply  as  you  will 
get  from  anybody.  Some  things  are,  whether  we  under 
stand  them,  or  not.  And  some  are  evil  and  some  are 
good.  Choose  the  one  and  let  alone  the  other.  In  this, 
you  have  the  whole  matter. 

The  Professor  did  not  confine  himself  to  me,  but  made 
friends  of  the  whole  house.  Although  he  is  congrega 
tional,  as  it  is  called,  in  his  religious  opinions,  I  found 
Mrs.  P.  getting  quite  partial  to  him.  Not  that  she 
liked  his  dogmas,  but  it  was  so  charming  to  find  a  man 
who  has  dogmas  and  defends  them. 

Parson ,  from  the  Full  Moon,  a  village  on  our  bor 
ders — called  here  soon  after  the  Professor  arrived,  and  they 
talked  up  all  manner  of  matters,  theological  and  profes 
sional.  Being  at  the  hour  when  I  usually  nap,  I  subsi 
ded  gently  for  a  space,  and  slept  while  they  mutualized. 
A  few  days  afterwards  I  drove  the  Professor  down  to  the 


ISRAEL    AND    TUB    PROFESSOR.          17 

village  to  return  his  visit.  We  fortunately  found  the 
minister  in  his  study  again,  and  it  being  my  nap-hour, 
and  the  reaction  from  the  drive  being  in  fact,  irresistible, 
I  took  another — and  I  will  say  a  very  grand — snooze,  in 
the  minister's  rocker.  As  I  partially  waked,  now 
and  then,  I  heard  them  pounding  and  expounding  upon 
the  old  divines,  and  Princeton  and  Princeton  affairs,  and 
I  slept  perhaps  with  more  than  my  usual  satisfaction, 
from  knowing  that  upon  those  hard  and  knotty  points, 
I  should  have  been  as  a  child  before  them.  We  came 
home  through  an  atmosphere  as  sharp  as  needles, — in  the 
last  rays  of  a  brilliant  sunset, — and  the  next  day  my 
friend  went  down  into  Tac  Hattcrac,  promising  to  re 
turn  again  ;  but  now  I  am  sitting  with  windows  open 
in  this  blushing  month  of  June,  and  my  friend  comes 
not  He  has  gone  home,  long  ago,  by  the  southern 
route,  and  is  all  absorbed  in  his  mathematics  and  young 
Israels. 

My  dear  Professor,  you  see  now  my  position.  I  am 
distrait — from  this  loss.  Where,  now,  shall  I  find  some 
one  who  will  be  to  me  as  this  Israel  ? 

Exploring  about  the  country,  I  pauoe  over  your 
observatory  ;  and,  as  near  the  sky  as  is  possible  in  that 
building,  I  behold  a  stoutish  man,  black-eyed  as  the 
midnight,  who  is  sitting  in  a  jockey-chair,  on  a  circular 


18  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

railroad,  wheeling  himself  silently  here  and  there,  or 
spying  through  a  tube,  among  the  stars  and  other  spots 
of  the  universe.  A  man  whose  only  dealing  is  with 

facts.     Ah,  my  dear  B ,  you  are  the  man  for  me. 

Home,  from  cruising  about  the  world,  I  apprehend,  my  old 
friend,  that  you  are  my  fixed  fact.  Be  this  prop  to  me, 
Professor.  Surround  me  as  a  mountain.  You  are  pre 
cisely  in  the  condition  in  which  the  Dominie  was  to  me 
— in  that  we  have  not  seen  each  other  for  these  many 
years.  Let  us,  also,  compare  notes.  Let  us  sit  down 
at  these  magnificent  distances,  you  with  your  cigar,  and 
I  with  my  Souchong,  and  be  a  committee  of  one,  in 
each  place,  to  decide  upon  matters  and  things  in  ge 
neral.  Shall  it  be  so  2  Yours,  Z.  P. 


II. 


June,  1850. 

IF  you  accept  my  proposition,  sir,  I  shall  count  upon 
your  being  a  man  of  nerve  ;  for  I  revolve  through  a 
variety  of  moods.  I  am  this,  to-day  ;  that,  to-morrow  ; 
and  the  other  thing  next  week  ;  that  is  to  say,  strong, 
or  weak,  or  indifferently  stupid,  as  the  weather  and  my 
physical  condition  permit.  Have  you  the  courage  to 
face  such  an  announcement  ;  for,  if  not,  we  had  best 
come  to  a  quick  conclusion.  But  one  thing,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  you  may  count  upon  with  some  certainty  : 
that  we  do  get  the  virtue  of  the  sunshine  and  the  rain, 
and  the  blue  sky  (leaving  the  stars  out),  better  than  do 
you  in  town,  and  upon  them  we  can  always  report. 

And  a  man  who  is  so  busy  with  the  sky,  must  have 
some  interest  in  knowing  how  it  looks  elsewhere  in  the 
world,  what  storms  are  coming  up,  and  what  chances 


20  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

we  have  of  a  fair  to-morrow.  Now  that  you  have  come 
home  from  wandering  about  the  world,  and  we  are  both 
housed,  for  some  little  time  at  least,  it  Avill  not  be  like 
sending  letters  off,  as  heretofore,  to  the  South  Seas,  or 
wherever  your  ship  might  be  dashing  the  spray.  Your 
last  letters  from  Malta  and  Algiers  are  already  obsolete. 
It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  what  I  send  you  will  not 
need  to  get  stale  from  mere  travel ;  and  I  shall  expect 
from  you,  sir,  the  freshest  and  brightest  of  all  the  starry 
news. 

We  have  a  few  friends  here  and  there,  in  this  world 
and  the  old,  who  are  in  the  habit  of  sending  us  an  occa 
sional  "  Good  morning."  Once  in  six  months  or  so,  we 
look  about  to  see  if  any  are  missing,  sending  out  the 
usual  inquiry,  and  if  we  get  an  "  All's  Avell,"  we  make 
but  little  pause,  and  plunge  on  in  the  great  stream  of 
life.  By  and  by,  as  we  so  look  about  us,  one  and 
another  are  gone.  There  comes  no  reply;  but  a  few 
lines  from  a  friend  of  our  friend  will  tell  us  that  he  has 
finished  his  correspondence  here :  his  hand  is  palsied : 
it  is  dust. 

I  propose,  Professor,  that  we  shall  exchange  a  few 
words  oftener  than  this  six  months'  questioning ;  and  if 
your  leisure  will  not  permit  you  to  reply  to  me  always,  I 
will,  at  least,  have  the  satisfaction  of  saying  my  say.  I  shall 


PROPOSALS.  21 

prose  sometimes ;  oftener,  perhaps,  I  shall  preach ;  but 
this  I  beg  you  to  consider  as  a  mere  habit  of  talking  to 
myself ;  for,  doubtless,  we  have  an  affair  of  some  import 
ance  on  hand — that  is  to  say — in  getting  ready  for  the 
next  stage  of  life :  the  next  and  last  administration  of 
affairs. 

We  purpose,  for  the  present,  a  life  of  quiet  and 
repose ;  we  can  get  the  sunshine  here  as  well  as  in. New- 
York  or  London,  and  better  too.  It  is  enough.  Any 
thing  more  than  this,  and  bread  and  meat,  is — non 
sense. 

I  do  not  say  that  our  sister  Tidy  will  be  wholly 
content  with  this  plain  fare.  She  may  be  looking  for 
a  dash  of  "  nonsense." 

Youth  should  be  crowned  with  hope,  unless  it  has 
already  found  a  happy  resting-place  in  its  own  indwell 
ing  joy ;  and  it  may  be  that  to  our  sister  the  mornings 
and  evenings  may  even  now  roll  by  all  as  on  golden 
wheels.  I  have  a  suspicion  that  this  is  so,  in  all  its  ful 
ness  and  beauty,  but  almost  tremble  to  utter  a  word 
as  to  what  may  be  in  her  future.  Our  friend  Frank 
may  know,  but,  as  yet,  I  doubt  if  he  has  whispered 
the  thought  even  to  his  own  soul. 

But  of  further  travel  we  have  no  need.  It  is  pro 
nounced  on  all  sides  that  the  pause  we  have  now  made 


22  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

is  a  happy  one ;  at  the  longest,  it  will  be  to  me,  at  least, 
but  short  Let  us  use  these  last  days  in  calmness,  to 
get  ready  for  the  great  journey. 

We  can  send  our  thought  to  England  or  the  North 
Pole,  and  that  is  as  good  as  to  go  there,  and  saves 
trouble  and  wear  and  tear.  Nature  has  decked  herself 
pleasantly,  to  keep  people  at  home  and  by  their  own 
fire-sides.  They  are  nearer  heaven  there  than  elsewhere 
— is  it  not  so,  my  old  friend  ? — and  more  likely  to 
reach  heaven  at  last.  Home,  home ;  where  is  it,  in 
London  or  Paris  ?  Who  cares  to  see  you  there  ?  Who 
comes  down  to  meet  you  at  breakfast?  Who  says 
"good  night" to  you,  or  gives  you  "the  kiss  for  good 
morning  ?" 

Good-bye,  Professor,  before  I  change  from  this  tear 
ful  mood  to  one  of  wrath,  at  the  memory  of  that  smutty 
and  smoky  London ;  and  let  us  thank  the  sweet  heaven, 
my  old  friend,  that  instead  of  a  fog-blanket,  we  have 
the  "  blue  sky  over  all."  Yours,  Z.  P. 


III. 


June  —  ,  1850. 

IT  is  morning  again,  and  we  have  the  doors  and  win 
dows  all  wide  open  for  another  summer  day.  How  are 
you,  my  star-gazer  ?  How  is  it  with  you  ?  Were  you 
up  all  night  in  that  round  attic  ?  Ah,  what  do  you 
know  of  the  sweet  morning  ? 

My  friend  Capt.  -  ,  of  Bugle  Place,  says  the 
luxury  of  life  is  to  read  Bishop  Berkley  in  the  morning 
and  play  chess  in  the  evening.  I  shall  instead,  write  to 
the  Professor. 

Pray,  what  had  Bishop  Berkley  to  do  with  such 
real  things  as  this  pure  air  and  light,  such  palpabilities, 
such  royal,  such  happy  matters  of  fact  ?  Besides,  all 
the  world  knows  that  when  he,  the  Bishop,  "  said  there 
was  no  matter,  and  proved  it,  it  was  no  kind  of  matter 
what  he  said."  Of  course  not.  But  I  am  willing,  this 


24  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

morning,  to  ignore  all  the  world  that  is  not  wanted  for 
our  especial  purposes.     I  am  in  the  mood  for  this  to-day. 

"  Let  us  alone,  let  us  alone, 
For  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb." 

Ah,  Professor,  is  it  a  sin  in  me  to  have  made  you 
this  flourish,  so  as  the  more  gently  to  announce  to  you, 
that  this,  at  Pundison  House,  is  our  predominant  mood ; 
that  our  feeling  to  the  great  world  is  that  of  an  ever 
lasting  good-bye, — that  we  say  with  the  lotos-eaters,  now 
that  we  have  floated  aside  into  this  quiet  up-country 
home, — let  us  alone — let  us  alone,  we  have  had  some 
what  to  do  with  each  other  and  with  sufficiently  happy 
results  ;  now  let  us  part  in  peace ;  we  will  stop  here,  if 
you  please,  while  you  go  on.  Some  day  we  may  meet 
again,  but  let  us  make  no  promises.  People  upon  the 
outer  borders — outsiders  all,  addio,  addio. 

Suryit  amari  aliguid,  say  you  ?  Oh  no,  Professor, 
a  thousand  times  "  no."  But  let  us  have  one  thing  at 
a  time. 

In  this  new  phase,  and  with  the  added  lines  of  the 
last  ten  years,  I  wonder,  sir,  if  you  would  know  me  ? 
It  would  be  strange  if  we  should  some  day  meet  as 
strangers,  and  more  strange  if  we  should  converse  to 
gether  and  unwittingly  get  talking  of  old  days  and 


PUNDISON   HOUSE.  25 

by-gones,  and  mutual  friends,  and  still  not  know  each 
other. 

I  have  told  you  that  this  place  of  our  retreat  is  quiet 
and  out  of  the  great  world.  It  has  not  the  quiet,  how 
ever,  of  that  charming  land  of  the  lotos-eaters.  We  do 
not  hear  the  solemn  beat  of  the  sea ;  there  is  no  stream 
in  the  distance  that  seems  to  fall  and  pause  along  the 
cliffs,  like  a  downward  smoke :  no  gaps  in  the  hills 
opening  into  inland  vales,  nor  is  it  "  always  afternoon  " 
with  us.  Good  morning  is  my  favorite  salutation,  what 
ever  be  the  time  of  day.  I  do  not  like  to  acknowledge 
that  the  night  is  coming,  much  less  that  it  has  come.  I 
like  to  make  believe,  at  least,  that  it  is  still  morning. 

To  my  wife  all  things  are  just  in  the  flush  of  sunrise 
and  she  carries  the  brilliance  and  freshness  of  morning 
wherever  her  glad  countenance  is  seen. 

I  must  tell  you,  my  old  friend,  privately,  that  my 
timbers  are  giving  way.  I  am  getting  into  the  after 
noon  of  my  days.  I  fancy  I  can  almost  look  over  into 
that  land  where  my  sun  must  set.  But  my  wife  insists 
upon  it  that  we  have  a  long  summer  day  before  us. 

If  it  is  only  sunrise  to  my  wife,  to  her  sister  Tidy,  who 
sits  half  the  time  dreaming  under  the  maples,  it  is 
not  yet  more  than  day-break ;  it  is  that  calm  hour, 
when  every  thing  is  looking  for,  and  expecting  the  day, 


26  UP-COUNTRY  LETTERS. 

which  is  flashing  brilliantly  just  over  the  mountains, 
but  is  not  yet  arrived.  But  will  it  arrive  ?  Doubtless. 
Just  over  the  mountains — so  near ;  the  morning,  the 
day  so  near  !  and  will  it  be  under  this  firmament,  or  in 
another  and  higher  one  "  eternal  in  the  heavens  ?"  Ah, 
my  child,  all  our  mornings  are  with  God. 

You  will  remember  my  father;  but  it  must  be 
many  years  since  you' have  seen  him.  Although  past 
his  threescore  and  ten,  will  you  wonder  if  I  say  to  you, 
that  I  sometimes  think  it  is  more  "  morning",  with  him 
than  with  any  of  us.  Certainly  he  is  stronger  and 
heartier  than  I  am  ;  and  with  more  than  twice  my 
years,  I  do  believe  there  is  more  youth  at  his  heart  than 
there  is  at  mine. 

When  you  get  your  furlough,  my  old  friend,  you 
must  take  us  on  your  way  home.  You  shall  come  in 
then  some  Sunday  night  and  hear  us  all  singing  our 
old-fashioned  tunes.  It  will  carry  you  back  to  old  Con 
necticut.  Tunes  which  my  father  will  tell  you  he  heard 
at  Milford,  or  Danbury,  or  New  Haven,  more  than 
forty  years  ago ;  and,  perhaps  he  will  add  who  it  was 
preached  on  the  occasion — Dr.  Bellamy,  or  Backus,  or 
may  be,  the  famous  Dr.  Dwight. 

We  are  a  little  aside  from  thoroughfares,  but  accessi 
ble,  and  within  hearing  of  the  outer  world,  i.  e.,  the  buzz 


PUNDISON    HOUSE.  27 

of  it,  as  in  the  rail  trains  that  come  up  within  a  mile  of 
us,  and  go  off  sputtering  and  screaming  among  the  hills, 
carrying  a  blue  smoke  all  along  that  sky. 

Also,  we  see  in  the  distance,  spires  going  up  here 
and  there ;  and  in  the  south  and  east,  of  a  Sunday 
morning,  there  are  not  less  than  a  half  dozen  bells  whose 
sweet  tones  come  up  and  pass  on,  or  float  and  mingle 
about  us.  Just  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  and  from  our 
upper  rooms,  we  look  down  upon  rapids  that  go  gallop 
ing  away  on  either  hand,  and  always  by  listening,  we 
hear  the  low  sound  of  a  not  distant  cataract. 

Good  night,  Professor;  I  began  this  letter  in  the 
morning,  but  now  "the  dark  is  over  all,"  and  the  week 
draws  to  its  close.  It  is  Saturday  night. 

Addio,  Z.  P. 


IV. 


June,  1850. 

BLESSED  be  this  day  for  ever  and  always  —  in  all  places 
of  the  habitation  of  whatsoever  hath  tongue  with  which 
to  rejoice  and  a  heart  to  be  glad  with. 

But  there  is  a  difference  in  Sundays.  A  Sunday  in 
old  Connecticut,  in  those  sheltered  towns  among  the 
mountains  is  different,  oh  how  widely,  from  the  Sunday 
in  this  broad-featured  state  of  New-  York.  But  even 
here  it  is  a  holy  day. 

Early  in  the  morning  every  one  has  put  on  the  dis 
tinguishing  look  of  Sunday  ;  a  look  which  has  great 
variations.  In  my  father's  face  it  is  severe  and  inflexi 
ble.  Having  shaved  on  Saturday,  he  appears  by  no 
means  later  this  morning  than  his  usual  hour,  and  al 
ways  in  a  ruffle  shirt,  white  cravat,  and  a  shirt-collar  so 
high  and  firm,  that  to  look  on  either  side  he  is  obliged 


UP-COUNTRY   SUNDAY.  29 

to  turn  himself  carefully  around  to  that  quarter.  As  my 
father  seldom  removes  his  hat,  he  changes  his  old  one 
on  Sundays  when  he  feels  quite  well,  for  one  that  is  com 
paratively  fresh  and  new,  but  worn  however  with  entire 
ease. 

Having  breakfasted  by  candle-light,  the  day  begins 
early  with  him.  By  eight  o'clock  he  is  seated  in  his 
big  chair  before  his  comfortable  fire,  reading  the  New- 
York  , — but  Scott's  Commentaries  is  usually 

seen  on  the  sofa — the  old  folio  loose  sheets  which  have 
never  been  bound — and  D  wight's  sermons,  with  perhaps 
the  life  of  Newton. 

I  have  said  that  his  look  is  severe,  but  it  is  only  so 
in  the  presence  of  others.  It  is  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Do 
you  know,  sir,  that  this  is  the  Sabbath !  Let  me  hear 
no  idle  talk,  but  reflect,  sir,  that  you  are  in  the  presence 
of  the  King  of  Kings." 

But  when  the  house  is  all  still  and  deserted,  and  he 
is  left  alone  with  his  Bible  and  his  far-travelling  thoughts 
— the  dogs  perhaps  stretched  at  his  feet,  and  no  sound 
any  where  but  the  picking  of  a  mouse  in  the  cupboard, 
or  the  creak  of  a  door,  in  some  distant  and  silent  cham 
ber — then  it  is,  in  his  unconscious  moments,  there  is  to 
be  seen  upon  his  face,  a  sunny  look  of  peace  and  calm 
ness,  and  lordly  hope,  which  takes  at  least  twenty  years 


30  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

from  his  life.  Disturb  him  not  then,  for  he  is  looking 
over  into  that  land  where  he  must  shortly  go.  He  is 
communing  with  the  happy  dead.  From  his  earliest 
years,  his  companions  have  been  going  away  one  by 
one,  till  now  he  has  passed  his  threescore  and  ten,  and  is 
left  alone,  while  they — have  been  silently  gathered  into 
the  Kingdom  of  Christ.  All  the  years,  as  they  roll  by, 
pause  upon  that  shore : — all  the  kind  wishes — all  the 
prayers,  all  the  aspirations  of  a  long  life,  they  have  gone 
on  to  that  blessed  land.  Ah,  sir,  it  is  not  sleep  which 
keeps  him  so  still  and  calm,  but  a  true  vision  of  the  life 
to  come. 

In  what  a  noiseless  way  is  every  thing  done  this  calm 
morning.  The  women  go  about  whispering  and  the 
loudest  break  upon  the  stillness  is  Bob  brushing  shoes  on 
the  south  piazza. 

It  is  on  this  day,  that  my  wife  has  her  happiest  look. 
Always  of  a  Sunday,  she  is  a  little  picture  of  peace  and 
joy  and  thanksgiving.  She  delights  in  the  day — in  all 
its  duties  and  services,  as  a  bird  does  in  song ;  it  is  her 
life,  her  garden  enclosed.  All  the  week  is  perfumed,  as  it 
were,  with  her  Sunday.  Prayer  and  praise  are  the 
proper  elements  of  this  day,  but  these  are  so  common  to 
her  at  all  times,  that  Sunday  seems  to  be  for  her  especial 
benefit — that  so  she  might  enjoy  herself  this  day  after 


UP-COUNTRY   SUNDAY.  31 

her  own  heart ;  it  is  thus  to  her 'a  day  of  gladness.  You 
will  understand  how  it  is,  when  I  tell  you  that  if,  hav 
ing  a  friend  with  us  to  dinner  on  Sunday,  as,  say  Frank 

Bryars,   or  the  celebrated ,  who   so  abuses  my 

Claude,  I  say,  you  will  perceive  that  if  on  such  an  occa 
sion,  I  produce  a  small  bottle  of  champagne,  my  wife 
makes  never  the  slightest  objection.  She  has  some  little 
ways  on  Sunday  which  are  peculiar  to  the  day.  As  for 
instance :  I  am  brushed  that  morning  with  a  searching 
exactness,  and  however  carefully  I  may  have  arranged 
my  hair,  it  must  always  receive  one  more  touch  from 
her  gentle  hand.  She  is  herself  complete  and  perfect 
for  the  day  at  about  ten  o'clock  and  ten  minutes :  She 
then  appears  in  a  dress,  about  which  I  never  remember 
any  thing  except  its  entire  fitness  for  the  day,  and  for  my 
wife.  She  has  the  rare  gift  of  so  wearing  things  as  to 
make  much  of  little.  A  collar,  for  instance,  which  upon 
some  women  would  be  unsightly  and  noticeable  as  such, 
is  to  her  all  neatness  and  propriety.  To  enter  church 
one  moment  after  the  service  begins,  is  a  small  horror, 
which  she  always  avoids  if  possible.  We  start  there 
fore,  betimes,  and  if  I  am  well  enough  she  delights  to 
take  my  arm,  and  so  walk  as  true  and  loving  husband 
and  wife  up  to  the  very  door  of  the  church.  There  she 
relinquishes  the  arm :  she  leaves  me  there, — she  enters 
another  presence. 


32  UP-COUNTBY    LETTERS. 

Our  walk  across  the  Shag-Bark  and  up  into  the  vil 
lage,  (for  we  are  wholly  aside  from  the  world,)  uses  up 
our  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,  especially  if  my  wife  has 
to  stop  once  or  twice  to  balance  my  hat  straight  on  my 
head,  it  having  a  habit  of  canting  s^-htly  even  on  Sun 
day.  If  we  are  quite  late,  she  often  leaves  me  on  the 
bridge  and  walks  on  faster  than  my  slow  gait  will  carry 
me,  but  it  is  only  to  return  after  a  little  and  take  my 
arm  again.  This  does  not  hasten  matters  at  all,  but  it 
eases  her  impatience,  if  it  is  not  improper  to  apply  such 
a  word  to  her  on  this  quiet  day.  With  one  or  two  little 
episodes  of  this  character,  we  at  last  reach  the  church 
door  together,  and  not  seldom  with  a  brilliance  of  com 
plexion  on  her  part,  which  looks  on  her  pure  face,  almost 
like  sin.  When  I  wish  to  please  her  particularly,  I  put 
on,  not  without  great  effort,  my  black  gloves.  I  seldom 
wear  gloves.  They  are  sticky  things  unless  the  weather 
is  cold,  and  then  give  me  mittens.  Notwithstanding  all 
my  efforts  at  economy,  my  wife  has  prevailed  upon  me 
to  get  a  new  overcoat,  and  now  instead  of  my  old  gray, 
which  was  inexpressibly  dear  to  me  for  having  warmed 
me  for  three  winters  and  in  various  lands,  and  for  hav 
ing  cost  me  only  six  dollars  in  the  beginning, — now  I 
appear  in  a  thing  which  is  well  enough,  I  suppose,  but 
dismally  bran-new.  With  this  coat  and  my  black 


UP-COUNTRY   SUNDAY.  83 

gloves,  they  tell  me  I  am  renewing  my  youth.  I  only 
feel  that  I  have  parted  from  a  true  friend. 

But  now,  sir,  listen  to  that  sweet  chant,  "Praise  the 
Lord,  praise  the  Lord,  oh,  my  soul,  and  all  that  is  within 
me,  praise  his  Holy  name."  And  the  "  Gloria  Patri" — 
how  like  a  solemn  amen  does  it  seem  always  to  these 
songs  of  praise. 

The  morning  service,  as  you  know,  is  pretty  long> 
except  when  divided,  as  it  very  properly  is  in  some 
churches.  Unless  I  am  feeling  quite  well,  I  am  seldom 
able  to  follow  through  the  whole  service.  Not  unlikely 
the  church  itself  is  felt  as  a  restraint  upon  me — not  so 
much  the  walls  and  the  roof  as  the  narrow  slip  in  which 
I  am  shut :  continually,  perhaps,  I  am  changing  about 
and  getting  new  postures — and  none  of  them  happy 
ones — none  satisfactory :  if  this  is  done  it  is  involuntary 
and  without  argument.  It  is  like  tossing  in  dreams  at 
night,  of  which,  at  the  time,  we  know  nothing.  But,  in 
regard  to  the  music,  I  am  myself  conscious  of  swaying 
about  somewhat,  emphasizing  it,  as  it  were,  and  timing 
the  whole  proceeding.  Mrs.  P.  has  told  me  that  in 
reading  passages  of  great  force  in  the  Psalter,  I  have  a 
habit  of  shaking  my  head,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  That  is 
very  great."  This  may  be,  and  I  reply  to  her,  that 
perhaps,  if  I  was  to  look  about  I  should  find  others,  also, 

with  as  curious  little  ways  and  habits. 
2* 


34  Up-CouNTKY  LETTERS. 

We  get  on,  at  last,  to  the  sermon ;  but  even  here, 
and  always  attractive  as  are  our  rector's  sermons,  I  am 
not  seldom  seized  with  sudden  abstractions,  which  carry 
me  off  swiftly,  but  noiselessly,  as  a  chip  is  lifted  by  small 
whirlwinds  in  summer  weather ;  and,  in  a  moment,  I 
forget  utterly  the  little  church,  and  the  rector,  and  the 
holy  day.  At  this  time,  and  while  drumming  perhaps 
in  a  lively  manner  on  the  pew-door,  I  am  gently  re 
stored  by  a  light  pressure  on  my  right  foot.  This  is 
my  wife's  doings — she  being  strictly  educated  to  think 
that  drumming  on  a  pew-door  is  an  improper  proceed 
ing:  a  point  which  I  never  argue,  but  sometimes  think 
I  more  than  make  up  for  this,  by  the  severe  and  un 
remitting  attention  which  I  bestow  upon  the  rest  of  tho 
sermon. 

I  have  said  that  the  morning  service  seems  long  to 
me.  It  may  be  partly  because  I  was  born  and  bred  in 
a  different  faith  ;  or  rather,  I  mean  not  that,  but  a  dif 
ferent  manner  of  worship.  But  it  is  not  this  altogether, 
for  the  afternoon  prayers  are  perfectly  enchanting,  if  it  is 
proper  to  apply  such  a  word  to  prayer.  If  they  do  not 
leave  with  me  "  the  peace  which  passeth  all  understand 
ing,"  then  am  I  bitterly  deceived.  But,  so  far  as  emo 
tion  is  concerned,  some  old-fashioned  tune  will  be  more 
heart-touching  to  me,  than  any  prayer  which  ever  fell 


UP-COUNTRY   SUNDAY.  35 

from  the  lips  of  mortal  man  ;  for  song  says  that  which 
words  cannot  say,  and  it  ascends  into  Heaven,  which  is 
its  home  and  its  continual  abiding-place  for  ever. 

Our  clergyman  is  almost  a  perfect  pattern  of  a 
country  rector ;  so,  at  least,  we  think,  who  have  had 
varieties,  and  have  some  ground  for  this,  our  present 
liking.  His  preaching  would  never  draw  crowds,  but 
always  gathers  together  a  little  circle  who  know  how  to 
appreciate  good  things.  His  sermons  are  like  little 
cabinet  pictures,  exceedingly  well  designed,  and  perfect 
as  a  poem  from  first  to  last.  I  do  profess  to  have  some 
taste  for  a  good  thing,  sir ;  and,  I  assure  you,  this  modest 
man  has  a  rare  gift  of  preaching,  which  would  delight 
you  to  hear.  I  come  back  to  our  plain  church  and  our 
plain  clergyman,  after  our  little  airings  about  the  coun 
try,  where  we  have  heard,  perhaps,  the  celebrated  Mr. 
"  Wideawake"  or  the  notorious — I  mean  the  illustrious 
— Mr.  " New  Jerusalem" — I  return  to  our  quiet  ways 
and  old-fashioned  associations,  precisely  as  after  stimu 
lants,  I  would  seek  out,  with  what  thankfulness,  the  cool 
spring  by  the  way-side,  and  the  shade  of  the  old  oak 
tree. 

Stir  me  up  with  no  long  pole,  sir,  on  this  subject ; 
but  give  me  rest  and  peace.  Do  not  these  breaking 
bones,  and  throbbing  temples,  and  the  long  nights  of 


36  UP-COUNTRV    LETTERS. 

weariness,  tell  me  my  sin  sufficiently,  I  ask  you  ?  Is 
there  any  one  in  the  broad  land  who  has  more  need  to 
ask  for  God's  deliverance  "  in  all  time  of  our  tribulation, 
in  all  time  of  our  prosperity,  in  the  hour  of  death  and  in 
the  day  of  judgment?" 

By  the  time  we  reach  home,  Kate,  who  goes  to  her 
church  earlier,  and  gets  home  by  eleven  o'clock,  has 
wheeled  out  the  little  round  table,  and  there  is  already 
the  cheerfulness  of  dinner — a  Sunday  dinner — plain  and 
unpretending — always  to  be  partaken  of  with  a  modest 
temperance,  to  keep  open  eyes  for  the  afternoon  sermon. 
As  we  pass  through  my  father's  sitting-room — the  front 
of  the  house  being  all  barred  and  bolted — he  asks  the 
question,  "  Where's  the  text  ?"  And  if  some  one  cannot 
produce  the  text,  he  concludes  we  have  been  to  church 
to  very  little  purpose. 

I  seldom  get  out  in  the  afternoon.  As  seldom  does 
my  wife  stay  at  home.  Whether  it  rain  or  shine,  or 
hail  or  snow,  the  performance  must  be  very  spirited  if  it 
keeps  her  from  the  afternoon  service.  My  father  and 
myself  take  our  usual  naps  ;  but  not  as  long,  if  possible, 
on  Sundays  as  on  other  days.  About  two  o'clock  we 
exchange  papers.  I  give  him  some  church  paper ;  for 
which,  by  the  way,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  he  has  but 
small  regard,  and  receive  from  him  the  New-York  — 


UP-COUNTRY    SUN  D  AY.  8*7 

.     Its  readable  articles — and  they  are  many — I 

find  marked  by  him  with  red  chalk,  for  my  especial 
notice  in  part,  and  in  part  for  the  benefit  of  friends  a 
long  way  off,  to  whom  the  paper  is  always  sent,  after  it 
has  been  thoroughly  exhausted  at  home. 

So  goes  away,  with  the  richness  and  silentness  of 
blessing,  our  Up-country  Sunday ;  and  then  comes 
twilight — of  all  its  hours,  the  most  serene  and  holy — 
and  the  day  is  gone.  Up  into  Heaven,  with  the  thousands 
which  have  gone  before,  it  has  ascended,  and  there  sits 
in  glory  !  Beautiful  day,  thou  hast  gone  home  to  God  : 
to  God  and  the  angels,  and  the  mighty  hosts  gathered 
in  that  blessed  land.  Gone  up  to  sit  in  glory  for  ever  1 
Beautiful  day,  farewell ! 


V. 


DID  you  ever  know  a  Monday,  sir,  that  had  not  some 
thing  dashing  in  it  ?  something  outrg  or  ultra,  elate  and 
hopeful,  or  urgent  and  distracting  ? 

Time  was  when  Monday  and  I  were  excellent 
friends;  when  rising  at  the  peep  of  day,  I  began  the 
vveek  with  a  shout.  Now,  I  have  made  friends  with 
calmness  and  self-possession.  I  say  to  Mrs.  P  -  , 
my  dear  wife,  let  us  take  life  easily;  joyful  as  you 
like,  but  gently,  temperately. 

But  this  morning  —  the  day  being  of  that  brilliant 
and  flashy  character  common  to  Monday  —  as  we  were 
all  sitting  about  the  round  table,  the  lady  astonished  me 
with  a  most  extraordinary  proposition.  On  a  day  so 
beautiful,  that  to  live  and  breathe  should  have  been  her 
utmost  wish  (as  it  was  mine),  she  desired  —  she  and 


MONDAY    MORNING.  39 

Tidy — to  drive  down  to  the  market-garden  with  my 
mare  Jenny !  A  mare,  sir,  which,  though  she  has  seen 
fifteen  years,  still  insists  upon  rounding  a  corner  like  a 
whirlwind.  They  say  she  is  so  old  and  so  gentle. 
Doubtless,  she  is  high  bred,  she  is  gentleness  itself,  but 
— she  has  thrown  me  over  her  head  more  than  forty 
times.  I  could  point  you  now,  sir,  to  the  spots  made 
memorable  by  those  somersets.  Beside,  her  nervous 
susceptibility  (I  do  not  call  it  timidity)  is  beyond  their 
comprehension.  By  raising  an  umbrella  before  her,  I  can 
make  her  kneel  before  me  and  beg  like  a  child. 

"Well,  sir,  imagine  two  women  (say  girls  rather)  be 
hind  such  a  horse,  and  suppose  they  have  a  corner  to 
round,  and  are  not  thinking  of  her  way  of  doing  it ;  or 
suppose  a  trace  slips  off  the  hook  going  up  hill — sup 
pose  a  spring  breaks — thunder  and  Mars,  sir !  suppose 
Jenny  herself  gets  a  little  nighty  ?  What  would  they 
do  ?  what  could  they  do  ?  Why,  sir,  they  would  be 
utterly  lost ;  their  wits  would  fly  to  the  four  winds. 

All  this  I  submitted  to  them,  but  of  what  avail  on 
a  Monday  morning?  Talk  to  the  north  wind,  but 
not  to  young  girls  bent  upon  a  drive.  Fortunately 
before  the  morning  was  quite  ruined,  Frank  Bryars 
came  in  and  offered  to  drive  them  down.  Frank  is  not 
strong,  but  he  knows  Jenny,  and  no  one  understands 


40  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

better  than  yourself,  Professor,  that  a  man  who  knows  a 
horse  can  drive  him  with  a  tow-string. 

They  returned  in  great  glee,  just  as  Kate  was  get 
ting  out  the  table  for  dinner,  and  the  crowing  was  very 
spirited.  They  had  got  this  and  that ;  had  been  here 
and  there ;  and  my  wife  had  held  the  reins  all  the 
way. 

"  Why,"  said  she,  "  didn't  you  see  me  drive  up  the 
yard  ?"  "  Oh,  yes,"  I  said  ;  "  and  if  Johnny  had  not 
been  there  to  stop  the  mare,  she  would  have  walked 
straight  into  the  barn,  wagon,  women,  and  all" — which 
was  the  fact. 

But  to  return  to  the  dinner ;  not  mutton,  but  lamb- 
chops,  juicy  and  tender  as  a  pheasant;  and  for  dessert, 
strawberries  and  cream — real  cream,  and  strawberries 
picked  this  morning. 

Nothing  more,  you  observe,  to  spoil  the  dinner,  as 
meats  of  any  other  kind — pastries,  puddings,  and  the 
like — which  are  bad  enough  at  any  time,  but  with 
lamb-chops  and  strawberries,  would  be  an  utter  profana 
tion. 

I  mistake — there  was  an  extra — a  salad  with  a 
cream  dressing.  After  dinner  the  dogs  came  in  foi 
their  bones,  bursting  with  laughter  and  short  barks. 

Tidy   came    out  of    her    dream,   and    chatted   aa 


MONDAY    MORNING.  41 

sharply,  as  though  she  had  never  had  a  dream  in  her 
life.  Frank  was  in  his  best  mood,  and  my  wife,  what 
with  the  fine  morning  and  the  jarring  of  the  wagon, 
looked  as  brilliant  as  a  sunrise  in  the  mountains.  It 
was  the  look  of  one  who  had  held  the  reins ! 

Directly  after  dinner  we  went  out  on  the  west 
piazza :  a  spot  well  shaded  with  pines  and  maples,  and 
climbing  vines  ;  but  not  so  dense  as  to  be  chilly,  if  the 
air  happens  to  be  lacking  of  that  extreme  warmth 
which,  to  invalids  like  Frank  and  myself,  is  so  accepta 
ble.  Taking  out  easy  chairs,  we  had  the  afternoon  all 
before  us.  Birds  were  about  in  the  branches,  and  the 
hum  of  noises  going  on  in  the  meadows,  and  down  by 
the  river-side,  was  a  complete  music. 

I  had  that  delightful  feeling  of  weariness  which  a 
dinner  not  too  heavy  will  sometimes  give  to  an  invalid ; 
and  as  it  was  my  usual  hour  of  napping,  I  began  to 
recede  from  the  actual  world,  and  coast  about  on  uncer 
tain  shores,  coming  back  quite  often  to  take  a  fresh  start, 
and  hear  a  word  or  two  of  the  conversation.  Rover, 
who  imitates  his  master,  and  Pompey  who  imitates 
Rover,  was  spread  out  on  his  haunches,  with  his  nose 
between  his  paws,  now  and  then  snapping  indolently  at 
flies  and  bumble-bees  that  floated  that  way.  Frank 
stood  leaning  against  the  plum-tree,  in  a  place  com- 


42  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

mandinof  a  view  of  the  meadow    and  river  below — 

O 

a  favorite  look-out  of  his  ;  while  Tidy  seated  herself  a 
little  way  apart,  under  a  maple,  and  retired  immedi 
ately  into  one  of  her  pleasant  reveries ;  waking  occa 
sionally  with  great  earnestness  to  admire  the  plum-tree 
by  the  garden  fence,  which  was  now  heavy  with  young 
fruit. 

"  We  should  have  been  back  sooner,"  said  Frank, 
returning  to  the  piazza,  "  but  I  did  not  like  to  come  by 
way  of  the  Long  House,  and  so  we  came  around."  I 
was  nearly  asleep,  but  remarked,  with  a  good  deal  of 
emphasis,  "  Of  course,"  and  grasped  again  at  my  broken 
dream. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  continued,  "  do  you  know,  Tidy 
— I  mean  Mr.  Pundison — do  you  know  why  I  always 
dodge  that  house  ? "  and  without  waiting  for  an  answer 
he  went  on  ;  "  it  was  about  ten  years  ago — " 

Again,  I  was  nearly  asleep  ;  but  hearing  the  words 
"  ten  years  ago,"  I  took  them  up  mentally  for  a  private 
examination.  To  grasp  the  whole  subject  was  too  over 
whelming.  "  Ten  years,"  I  said  to  myself ;  "  where  was 
I  ten  years  ago  ?  and  where  were  you,  sir  ?  and  where 
was  any  body  ten  years  ago  ?  Why,  sir,  the  idea  is 
preposterous !  Besides,  you  don't  know  the  mare  from 
Adam:  she'll  jostle  you  to  pieces  before  you  go  ten 


MONDAY    MORNING.  43 

rods — that  is,  I  mean,  ten  years — eh  ? — no,  ten  rods — 
ten  years,  ten  rods,  ten  years — ten — te — t — " 

Mr.  Pundison  was  asleep.     The  Monday  was  too 
much  for  him.     Good  night,  Professor.  Z.  P. 


VI. 


WE  slept  :  —  Frank,  the  gentle  people,  the  dogs,  and  my 
self.  The  thermometer,  also,  having  found  a  happy 
mark  at  about  80,  stood  still  all  through  the  golden 
hours.  But  the  world  went  on  all  the  same,  until  by 
and  by  the  sun  made  a  tangling  pause  in  the  top  of  the 
great  pine  by  the  road-side  ;  and,  by  that  sign,  it  was 
five  o'clock. 

I  was  lying  in  a  leather-backed  chair,  on  the  piazza, 
with  my  feet  raised,  and  facing  the  northwest,  when  I 
emerged  slowly,  and  began  to  interest  myself  —  my  head 
hanging  well  back  —  with  the  beautiful  effect  of  the  sun 
light  in  the  tops  of  the  maples,  and  what  light  it  was, 
and  whether  they  were  maples,  or  not  rather  some 
kind  of  immortal  growth  —  so  beautiful  they  looked  —  in 
some  better  land.  But,  lowering  my  gaze,  I  soon  came 


MONDAY    EVENING.  45 

upon  Frank  Bryar's  pale  face,  his  hair  floating  about  it, 
and  himself  fast  asleep.  Tidy  was  still  under  the  maple, 
leaning  back  against  it  like  a  statue,  and  my  wife,  sitting 
in  a  little  short-legged  chair,  by  my  side,  was  watching 
with  a  mischievous  smile  to  see  me  come  out  of  my 
dream.  In-doors  was  a  little  clatter  of  tea-things,  and 
presently  a  bell  rang,  and  we  all  started  up,  and  were 
seriously  shocked  at  having  napped  to  such  an  extent. 

We  took  our  tea  about  the  round  table — a  table 
which  I  have  the  habit  of  mentioning  so  often,  because 
of  its  exceeding  beauty.  It  is  slightly  oval,  and  stands 
upon  a  single  stem,  which,  at  bottom,  branches  out 
quadrupally  upon  four  castors.  It  is  of  black  walnut, 
and  has  a  certain  happy  look  which  distinguishes  it  at 
once  from  all  other  tables.  My  wife  thinks  so  much  of 
it,  it  is  always  the  first  thing  she  looks  at  on  entering 
the  room.  All  the  afternoon  she  will  sit  dividing  her 
attention  between  some  fancy  work  and  the  round  table. 
It  was  said,  last  winter,  that  Rover  cured  himself  of  a 
bad  scald  he  got  in  the  kitchen  by  coming  in  and  look 
ing  at  the  table ;  and,  I  suppose,  it  is  not  to  be  doubted. 
One  thing  I  witnessed  myself,  and  can  therefore  vouch 
for,  that  Fompey  got  a  bone  in  his  throat  by  stopping 
to  look  at  it — the  table — while  in  the  act  of  swallowing. 
This  was  when  we  had  had  it  but  a  few  days,  and  every 


40  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

body  was  being  enchanted  with.  it.  I  will  add,  here, 
that  Pompey  got  the  bone  out  of  his  throat  by  coming 
back  and  taking  another  look  !  This,  you  know,  is 
upon  the  principle  of  homoeopathy. 

As  I  said,  we  all  took  tea.  No  fancy  cakes,  you 
understand,  or  sweetmeats  (distressing  things) ;  but 
sweet  bread,  and  butter  of  pure  gold,  and  a  cup  of  black 
tea,  sir,  with  cream !  A  high  cup,  with  thick  Avails. 
Only  to  look  at  such  a  cup  of  hot  souchong  is  pleasant. 
Artistically  and  prospectively  it  is  a  happy  thing  ;  but 
to  imbibe — to  make  it  a  part  of  your  curiously  contrived 
nervous  organization : — this,  sir,  is  inspiration. 

I  once  asked,  over  the  round  table,  "  What  is  the 
chief  end  of  man  ? "  My  wife  and  Tidy  making  no 
response,  and  looking  rather  bewildered  withal,  I  threw 
light  upon  the  subject  at  once,  by  replying,  "  To  drink 
black  tea  with  cream  !" 

After  tea  we  had  a  wood  fire  kindled  in  the  grate — 
the  air  outside  now  getting  cool — and  gathering  about  it 
while  the  light  glimmered  about  the  room,  I  called  upon 
Frank  to  go  on  with  his  story  of  the  "  Long  House." 
"  It  is  not  a  story,"  said  he,  "  but  entirely  a  matter  of 
fact,  or,  I  assure  you,  I  should  not  take  the  trouble  to 
dodge  that  house  so  often  as  I  do ;  but,  observe,  it  is 
but  a  plain  statement  of  a  plain  transaction." 


MONDAY    EVENING.  47 

"  Speak  clear  and  distinct,"  said  my  father,  who  had 
now  taken  a  seat  with  us  ;  "  you  have  been  to  college,  sir, 
and  should  know  the  importance  of  speaking  clear  and 
dis — tinctly."  Frank  bowed  to  my  father,  and  con 
tinued  the  story.  " Louder"  said  my  father,  "  and  let 
each  word  be  fairly  articulated.  This  was  the  rule,  sir, 
at  Morris  Academy,  more  than  forty  years  ago."  How 
this  concerned  Tidy  is  beyond  conjecture ;  but  little 
confusions  come  upon  her  so  strangely  of  late  that  I  am 
tired  of  seeking  for  explanation.  Frank  continued — 

"  At  the  time  I  speak  of — when  I  was  a  mere  lad — 
the  Long  House  had  been  recently  built,  and  should 
have  been  occupied  by  a  good  class  of  tenants  ;  but  for 
some  unaccountable  reason,  they  were  generally  a  pretty 
shabby  set  of  people. 

"  There  were  four  tenements,  but  they  were  sub-let, 
and  instead  of  four  families  only,  there  were  sometimes 
eight  or  ten ;  and  as  I  had  the  collecting  of  the  rents,  I 
came  in  contact  with  nearly  all  of  them ;  but  I  will  only 
speak  of  the  one  at  the  corner  occupied  by  a  man  of 
the  name  of  Smith,  who  appeared  to  me  to  be  an 
established  loafer.  His  rent  was  always  behind,  and  I 
never  had  the  fortune  to  discover  that  he  had  any  em 
ployment.  I  would  find  him  usually  hanging  about  the 
village,  looking  rather  pale  and  miserable,  but  as  it 


48  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

seemed  to  me,  also  intolerably  lazy.  I  was  full  of 
blood  then,  and  had  no  more  patience  with  such  char 
acters  than  your  father,  sir,  has  now.  But  there  was 
something  about  this  man  which  prevented  my  being 
at  all  harsh  with  him,  for  he  never  gave  an  ill-tempered 
reply,  but  always  was  expecting  to  get  some  money 
from  some  quarter,  and  he  did  hope  he  should  not  be 
lisappointed  in  it.  But  it  never  came ;  and  now  of  late 
Ae  was  not  so  well  as  he  had  been,  and  it  was  difficult 
for  him  to  get  that  kind  of  work  which  he  could  do. 
He  was  troubled,  I  think  he  said,  with  chills  and  fever, 
but  said  not  so  much  about  his  ills  as  he  did  about  his 
plans  and  expectations,  still  hoping  to  bring  up  the  rent 
pretty  soon.  But  at  last,  matters  getting  desperate,  he 
suggested  that  he  could  give  me  a  bill  of  sale  of  his 
cow ;  a  bill  of  sale  was  accordingly  made  out,  and  as 
the  cow  was  worth  some  twenty  dollars,  it  would  cover 
the  rent  and  leave  a  margin  beside.  On  the  whole  I 
was  rather  satisfied  with  this  arrangement;  for  the 
house,  you  observe,  was  not  built  exclusively  for  the 
comfort  of  its  tenants,  one  especial  object  being  that  it 
should  pay  something  back  to  the  capitalist  who  built 
it.  It  was  not  my  house ;  but,  if  I  did  the  business,  I 
must  do  it  in  a  business  way. 

One  bright  sunny  morning,  after  a  long  interval, 


MONDAY  EVENING.  49 

during  which  I  had  not  called  at  the  Long  House,  I 
thought  I  would  look  in  and  see  if  Smith  was  getting 
ready  to  take  up  the  bill  of  sale.  Knocking  at  his 
door,  it  was  opened  by  his  wife,  a  young  woman,  who 
would  have  been  happy-looking,  but  for  an  expression 
of  care  and  thoughtfulness,  which  is  so  common  among 
married  women  of  her  class  in  life.  But  now  I  observed 
an  unusual  calmness  in  her  features,  as  she  replied  to 
my  question  if  her  husband  was  at  home,  "  Yes,  walk 
in,  sir,"  and  stepping  back  into  the  room  as  I  followed 
her,  she  pointed  silently  to  the  other  side  of  the  room. 
I  was  about  to  speak,  when  I  was  struck  dumb  at  see 
ing  where  she  pointed,  her  husband  lying  at  full  length 
in  his  winding-sheet.  I  looked  about  for  a  moment, 
and  sat  down  in  a  perfect  maze ;  none  of  us  said  a  word. 
The  dead  man  could  not  speak — neither  could  I — nor 
the  wife.  '  But  now,'  some  voice  suggested,  '  is  a  very 
proper  time,  if  you  have  any  thing  to  say  about  that 
rent.  He  will  not  be  harsh  with  you,  Mr.  Bryars — you 
can  say  what  you  like — you  can  do  what  you  like  now 
— he  will  make  no  objection.  There  is  the  cow,  of 
which  you  have  the  bill  of  sale — you  can  drive  her 
home  if  you  like.  I  suppose  the  woman  will  have  to 
starve  herself  to  get  a  coffin  for  her  husband;  but  he  will 
not  know  any  thing  about  it ;  for  you  see  he  is  very  still.' 
3 


CO  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

"  Something  like  this  seemed  to  be  whispered  there 
in  the  minute  that  I  staid,  and  the  woman  gave  way  and 
broke  into  tears  and  sobs  that  were  more  than  I  could 
witness.  I  stammered  out  something,  and  left  the 
house,  and  I  believe  I  have  never  darkened  that  door 
since." 

There  was  a  pause  as  Frank  finished  his  account  of 
the  matter,  and  I  said,  "  What  did  you  do  for  the  wo 
man  ?"  "  Very  little,"  said  he.  "  I  did  what  I  could, 
gave  up  the  bill  of  sale  and  the  rent,  of  course,  but  1 
was  not  empowered  to  do  any  thing  in  such  cases,  and 
I  had  nothing  myself.  But  think,  sir,  of  calling  for 
rent  on  a  man  in  his  winding-sheet !" 

At  this  moment  my  father  rose  from  his  seat,  and 
struck  into  the  tune  of  St.  Martin's  at  the  very  top  of 
his  voice,  walking  up  and  down  the  room  in  his  way, 
and  gesticulating  with  extraordinary  vehemence.  We 
all  joined  in,  and  St.  Martin's  was  repeated  until  it 
shook  the  rafters  ; — so  Kate  said,  who  was  up  stairs  at 
the  time  finishing  her  work. 

After  St.  Martin's,  came  one  or  two  other  old  Con 
necticut  souvenirs,  and  we  finished,  as  we  do  often,  with 
"  Denmark,"  and  the  Gloria  Patri.  "  Good  night," 
said  Frank,  as  he  started  for  home — "  that  last  tune  is 
as  good  as  a  tonic.  Good  night,  good  night,  Tidy." 


MONDAY  EVENING.  61 

But  Tidy,  who  was  looking  out  one  of  the  south  win 
dows,  made  no  reply.  "  Tidy,  said  I,  "  Frank  is  saying 
good  night  to  you."  "  Yes,  I  know,"  said  she — "  Good 
night,"  and  continued  looking  out  into  the  dark. 

They  are  all  gone  now,  and  I  am  alone.  But  what 
was  the  meaning  of  those  three  round  drops  in  her  eyes  ? 
Ah,  my  friend,  if  I  had  not  moods  of  my  own  some 
times,  I  should  be  a  little  provoked  at  these  strange 
doings.  Addio,  Z.  P. 


VII. 

f  niton 


HAVE  tlie  kindness,  Professor,  to  say  to  that  person  who 
reported  the  contemptible  story  about  the  Pundison 
dogs,  that  he  is  a  slanderer  and  a  -  !  Fill  up  that 
blank  as  you  please  :  you  can  put  nothing  too  bad  in  it. 
When  any  thing  wicked  is  reported  to  me,  I  am  in 
the  habit  of  saying  to  my  wife  and  Tidy  —  "  Don't  believe 
it  :  don't  believe  a  word  of  it  :  wait  until  some  professor 
has  proved  first,  that  it  is  possible,  next,  that  it  is  proba 
ble,  —  and  lastly,  that  it  is  true.  And  as  to  ourselves,  let 
us  believe  we  have  many  right  good  friends  whom  we 
have  never  seen  or  heard  of  ;  and  that  here  and  there 
about  the  world,  many  and  many  a  good  word  is  being 
said  about  us  that  we  never  hear."  In  this  pleasant 
faith,  sir,  we  live,  day  by  day,  but  that  story  about  our 
dogs,  —  I  will  speak  to  that. 


THE   PUNDISON  DOGS.  53 

Perhaps  it  may  be  assumed  that  we  know  some 
thing  about  those  dogs :  we  raised  them,  as  the  phrase 
is,  and  their  whole  training  has  been  under  our  own  eyes. 
They  are  from  the  celebrated  dog,  GROWLIWITCH,  now 
living  a  retired  life,  on  a  farm  over  the  river  :  a  dog  of 
great  quickness  of  parts  and  the  highest  respectability. 
They  were  brought  up  in  a  sugar-box,  near  the  barn, 
and  their  habits  carefully  looked  into, — day  by  day.  If 
they  have  ever  turned  from  a  fight,  as  in  younger  days 
they  may  have  done,  their  quickness,  now,  in  snuffing 
up  any  possible  enemy  is  positively  wonderful.  I  have 
a  faint  recollection  of  seeing  Rover  on  the  jump  through 
the  pasture  with  the  old  cow  behind, — her  tail  high  in 
the  air, — but,  sir,  the  cow  was  in  a  fury,  and  he  was  a 
puppy.  Now,  not  a  pin  drops  on  the  piazza  but  they 
give  the  alarm.  So  in  their  naps  they  are  continually 
growling,  being  always  engaged,  you  see,  with  the 
enemy. 

Rover,  in  his  puppyhood,  had  a  habit  of  jumping 
through  the  window-glass  in  my  father's  room,  landing 
on  the  south  piazza,  with  his  mouth  full  of  barks,  and 
caring  nothing  for  bruises  and  cuts  : — his  only  thought, 
— the  enemy.  The  size  of  the  glass  (10  X  12),  gives 
you  the  size  of  the  dog.  Then  imagine  the  half  of 
Rover,  and  you  have  Pompey.  Whatever  Rover  does, 


54  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

Pompey  will  do  as  far  as  he  can  ;  but  their  tempers  are 
something  diverse.  The  one,  all  exuberance  and  a 
hearty  good-nature,  laughing  loudly  upon  the  smallest 
pretext :  the  other  shy  and  of  a  highly  nervous  organi 
zation.  Rover  is  black  and  white,  with  feet  like  the  feet 
of  a  leopard,  and  he  steps  as  though  he  was  proud  of 
them.  Pompey  is  of  a  rich  gold  color,  and  goes  about 
rather  daintily. 

Every  hot  day  we  give  them  a  plunging  bath  in  a 
barrel  of  cold  water.  Strange  to  say,  they  don't  like  it ; 
their  impression  evidently  being  that  they  are  then  ap 
proaching  the  climax  of  events.  Escaping  from  their 
bath,  it  is  Rover's  way,  exhausted  and  dripping  as  he  is, 
and  undecided  whether  to  laugh  or  cry, — to  cogitate 
upon  the  matter  for  about  a  minute  under  the  big  cedar 
then — exercise  being  the  rule  after  a  bath — he  begins 
with  a  little  trot  and  flourish  about  the  yard,  and  at  last 
disappears  up  the  great  north  road  at  the  top  of  his 
speed.  He  is  gone  for  an  hour  or  two  in  the  up-country, 
and  on  his  return  it  is  always  noticeable  that  he  carries 
his  tail  very  high,  and  laughs  immoderately.  His  un 
consciousness  of  the  morning  affair  is  very  rich.  Let  it 
go  now,  he  says,  and  say  no  more  about  it.  But 
Pompey  says  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  begins  and  ends 
the  whole  proceeding  with  continual  barks  and  scratches. 


THE   PUNDISON    DOGS.  55 

He  dies,  or  thinks  lie  dies,  at  least  five  times  before  it  is 
over :  then  gives  himself  a  shake  and  starts  on  a  race 
about  the  meadow,  down  and  across,  sideways  and  all 
ways  :  squares,  circles  and  rhomboids,  yelping  and  tum 
bling  in  the  grass  over  and  over,  and  still  yelping,  with 
his  tail  straight  out  like  a  scared  colt.  This,  for  a  full 
half  hour,  after  which  he  takes  a  nap  in  the  grass,  with 
one  eye  open,  never  forgetting  the  bath.  It  must  be  a 
tempting  bone  that  will  bring  him  nearer  than  the 
meadow  fence  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

I  have  been  at  the  trouble  to  tell  you  all  this,  sir, 
that  you  may  see  what  slight  grounds  are  sufficient  for 
those  who  have  the  heart  to  build  to  themselves  monu 
ments  of  their  own  malice.  Cowhide  that — person — 
Professor,  the  first  opportunity:  or,  if  you  choose  to 
bring  an  action  for  slander,  I  will  stand  by  you  to  the 
last  dollar. 

One  thing  more  : — It  has  been  said  that  although 
GROWLIWITCH  continues  to  have  puppies,  she  has  never 
produced  any  such  happy  specimens  as  these  firstlings, 
and  therefore — and  so  forth  and  so  forth. 

Oh  the  judgments  of  this  wicked  world  !  Because 
my  neighbor  sins  shockingly,  therefore  my  virtue  is  good 
for  nothing.  The  appearance  of  a  good  character, — 
proof  of  the  contrary  :  in  other  words,  all  goodness  is  a 


56  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

sham  and  a  pretension,  and  the  devil  the  only  honest 
and  plain  spoken  character.  What  a  world  it  is ! 

Sir,  who  ever  heard  of  a  whole  family  of  illustrious 
men  ?  There  are  families  of  blackguards,  but  you  will 
observe  here,  also,  that  some  one  will  strike  out  and  be  a 
gentleman.  Nature  is  always  trying  to  restore  herself : 
she  is  mostly  in  a  bad  way,  but  spares  no  efforts  to  come 
up. 

Sometimes,  after  such  efforts,  the  results  are  brilliant 
to  a  high  degree, — and  such,  sir,  are  the  Pundison 
Dogs.  Yours,  Z.  P. 


VIII. 

grite  to  %  §rprs\ 

Up-Country,  June,  1850. 

OUR  days  roll  so  smoothly,  sir,  that  we  have  not  much 
incident  to  report.  A  walk  with  the  dogs :  a  news 
paper  in  the  hammock :  a  nap  on  the  piazza,  followed 
by  black  tea  with  cream — and  the  day  is  gone.  Occa 
sional  ripples  on  this  smooth  flow  of  time  are  our  only 
outside  recreations. 

I  was  this  morning  looking  through  the  open  win 
dow  at  the  bobolinks  balancing  on  the  long  grass  in 
the  meadows,  and  into  (like-beautiful  things)  the  deep 
mosses  of  Hawthorne,  when  I  heard  my  name  called 
from  an  upper  window.  It  was  my  wife. 

"  Zariar,"  said  the  voice.     (Zariar  is  soft  for  Zacha- 

riah,  as  T.  is  for  Thankful.)    "  Zariar  !    Mr.  Pundison !" 

"  Eh  !  what ! "  said  I.     "  Do  you  know  we  are  to  go 

to  Frank  Bryars'  to  tea  to-night  ?"     "  Yes,"  I  replied ; 

3* 


58  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

"and  what  more?"  "Nothing — only  don't  walk  off 
and  forget  all  about  it." 

Directly  after  this,  I  heard  her  voice  winding  in  low 
tones  through  the  morning  chant,  stopping  for  a  moment 
to  adjust  something  in  the  room,  and  then  going  on 
again,  up  and  down  and  all  about  through  the  sweet 
music,  like  the  talk  of  a  brook  heard  in  the  pauses  of 
the  wind,  or  like  the  bobolink  balancing  and  singing  a 
little  song — then  down  in  the  grass  to  chatter  and 
dig  about,  and  up  again  for  another  mouthful  of 
praise. 

I  turned  to  Mr.  Hawthorne,  and  read  the  same  page 
up  and  down  six  times  without  taking  a  thought.  "  I 
wonder  now — (I  was  talking  to  myself) — "  I  wonder  if 
I  do  wander  away  in  that  fashion  ?  Have  we  got  in 
that  dilapidated  condition,  Mr.  Pundison,  that  we  do  not 
really  know  whether  we  are  in  the  body  or  out  of  the 
body  ?"  And  I  mused  for  a  little  space,  arguing  the 
point :  presently  a  neuralgic  shock  decided  that  we  were 
in  the  body.  "  But  are  we  a  little  distrait,  sometimes  ? 
Is  it  the  fact  ?  Is  it  probable — say,  rather,  is  it  possible  ? 
Ah,  well — Tidy  will  know — we  will  ask  Tidy." 

The  dogs  would  have  been  on  my  side — they  would 
have  taken  oath  that  I  was  entirely  regular ;  but  in  the 
uncertainty,  I  staid  under  the  maples  all  the  morning, 


DRIVE   TO    THE    BRYARS'.  59 

venturing  about  cautiously,  lest  my  vagrant  habits  might 
be  plotting  to  win  me  away. 

At  last  the  sun  began  to  slant  about  among  the 
trees,  and  sprawl  the  shadows  in  such  a  large  way  that 
we  began  to  think  of  starting  for  the  Bryars'.  The 
women  had  been  waiting  for  it  to  be  time  to  go,  and 
now  they  had  Avaited  rather  too  long,  and  it  was  getting 
late. 

But  John  was  soon  ready  with  the  mare,  and  piling 
into  the  lumber  wagon  as  well  as  we  could  we  rattled 
off.  At  the  very  start,  my  left  leg  received  such  a  shock, 
that  it  shook  out  an  old  neuralgic  twist  which  had  been 
asleep  there  for  months  ;  but  there  was  no  use  in  growl 
ing  when  the  wagon  made  such  a  racket :  nobody 
would  hear  it.  But  the  drive  was  short.  We  soon 
came  in  sight  of  Frank's  house  standing  on  the  hill,  far 
back,  and  with  a  row  of  poplars  going  up  the  yard  and 
before  the  house  itself,  and  other  old  forest  trees,  burying 
it  in  deep  shadow. 

The  mare  was  now  going  like  a  streak ;  for  any 
thing  that  rattles,  always  starts  her ;  and,  besides,  John 
knows  nothing  about  driving  her,  although  I  have  trained 

him  thoroughly,  again  and  again.  As  it  was,  the  boy  could 

t 
not  stop  her ;  and  so,  instead  of  drawing  up  gracefully 

before  the  front  door,  where  Frank  and  Fanny  stood 


60  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

ready  to  receive  us,  we  flew  past  on  swift  wings,  and 
only  brought  up  in  the  extreme  recesses  of  the  back 
yard. 

It  was  the  opinion  of  all — (for  the  beast  is  afraid  of 
me  as  death) — it  was  the  opinion  of  all,  that  if  I  had 
not  seized  the  reins  and  said,  "VVlioh  !  just  as  I  did,  she 
we  uki  have  cleared  the  fence,  and  taken  us  all  over  into 
the  orchard. 

We  got  out  on  the  wood-pile  and  took  breath,  while 
Frank  came  inquiring  what  we  were  doing  out  there  in 
the  lots.  Apart  from  that  screeching  shoot  through  the 
left  leg,  I  was  entirely  cc*>l ;  but  my  wife,  I  observed, 
had  put  on  a  very  fresh  color,  and  Tidy,  for  one  who 
dreams  so  much,  was  quite  dewy  and  sparkling. 

You  see  John  cannot  or  will  not  understand  that  the 
mare  must  be  driven  gently  at  the  start,  and  then  she 
will  go  gently  all  the  way :  but  touching  her  with  a 
whip  is  downright  madness. 

We  entered  the  house  by  the  kitchen  and  the  middle 
room ;  and  so  into  the  front  parlor.  Just  up  by  the  cham 
ber  windows  the  blackbirds  had  gathered  in  the  poplars, 
and  were  singing  with  the  greatest  vociferation  ;  groups 
of  them  flying  every  moment  down  to  the  river  banks, 
and  then  returning  shortly  to  their  nests  in  the  poplars. 
Presently  we  went  in  to  tea,  in  the  back  parlor ;  one  of 


DKIVE  TO    THE  BRYARS'.  61 

those  enchanting  rooms  which  you  fall  in  love  with  at 
sight.  We  were  still  within  the  sunset  which  came 
blazing  past  the  house  in  crimson  and  gold,  and  flying 
across  the  river  and  valley  (where  the  village,  more  than 
a  mile  distant,  was  lying  cool  and  shadowy),  marked 
itself  brightly,  and  with  the  sharpest  colors,  on  the  oppo 
site  hill-side. 

We  sat  down  to  our  tea,  and  euch  was  the  charm 
of  the  room  and  the  scene  altogether,  that  although  it 
all  faded  away  presently,  and  the  lights  were  brought 
in,  we  still  sat  about  the  table  until  we  all  rose  to  come 
home.  The  lady-chatter  at  the  tea  was  incessant :  great 
arrearages  of  up-country  gossip  were  brought  up  and 
discussed,  and  finished.  After  the  table  was  cleared, 
some  one  brought  Frank  a  cigar,  when  my  wife  said  to 
him,  "  I  beg,  Mr.  Bryars,  you  will  not  tell  any  more  of 
your  horrid  stories.  I  dreamed  of  that  Long  House  all 
night."  But  Frank  was  not  to  be  put  off.  He  was 
beset  to  have  another  talk.  "  That  story,"  said  he,  look 
ing  at  Tidy  in  a  kind  of  solemn  abstraction,  "  was  rather 
remarkable ;  but,  after  all,  the  man  had  a  home,  such 
as  it  was,  to  die  in ;  and  I  take  it,  that  is  some  com 
fort." 

Turning  to  me,  he  continued :  "  Did  you  ever  know 
old  Doctor .  He  must  have  lived  a  little  before 


62  UP-COUNTRY  LETTERS. 

your  time,  but  of  course  you  have  heard  of  him ;  but 
neither  you,  nor  any  one,  knew  him  as  I  knew  him. 
He  died  without  a  home ;  at  least  his  home  was  such, 
that  he  left  it  evidently  for  the  purpose  of  dying  away 
from  it.  The  Doctor,  as  you  will  remember,  was  "a  very 
large  man,  at  least  six  feet  high,  and  with  a  head  and 
face  in  full  proportion  for  such  a  frame.  As  is  not 
unusual  with  large  men,  there  was  a  look  of  extreme 
kindness  in  every  feature  of  his  fair  face,  and  he  inclined 
slightly  to  baldness.  His  head  and  face  might  without 
caricature,  be  said  to  be  magnificent,  and  this  also 
might  be  said  of  the  whole  man,  for  such  he  was. 
Why  he  should  be  so  shy  and  diffident,  however, 
seemed  very  strange. 

"  There  was  so  much  sickness  in  our  family  in  those 
days,  that  I  soon  got  thoroughly  acquainted  with  him. 
I  almost  invariably  drove  down  for  him,  when  he  was 
wanted,  and  this  was  always  two  or  three  times  a  week. 
In  this  way,  we  got  to  know  each  other,  although  we 
said  but  little.  Day  after  day  we  drove  about  together 
with  scarcely  a  word  between  us ;  but  the  most  com 
monplace  remark  from  the  Doctor,  accompanied  by 
one  of  his  looks  was  equal  to  a  volume  in  meaning. 

"  I  used  to  sit  waiting  for  him  in  the  carriage  by  the 
hour,  and  sometimes  would  have  to  drive  him  about 


DRIVE   TO   THE  BRYARS'.  63 

town  before  he  could  start.  The  world  in  those  days 
was  all  before  me,  and  nothing  suited  me  better  than 
this  idle  kind  of  life.  Of  course  it  pleased  the  Doctor 
immensely  to  have  one  who  was  not  worrying  him  to 
death  with  alarming  stories  of  patients  at  the  point  of 
death,  and  so  forth ;  and  as  he  always  had  some  private 
grief  in  hand  (told,  however,  in  so  gentle  a  way  that 
you  could  only  smile  at  it),  I  generally  had  the  first 
hearing.  Sometimes  it  was  some"  precious  scandal, 
which  somebody  had  got  up  about  him  in  the  village, 
but  oftener  some  personal  ill,  as  a  back-ache,  or  a  rheu 
matic  touch,  which  would  cause  him  to  put  on  a  face 
of  the  highest  individuality.  When  he  came  on  horse 
back,  as  he  sometimes  would,  on  fine  summer  days,  it 
was  amusing  to  see  him  come  up  the  yard,  leading  his 
horse,  with  one  hand  on  his  lame  back,  to  indicate  the 
locale,  for  the  time,  of  his  private  grief;  and  not  seldom, 
he  would  stop  half-way  up  the  yard  and  be  feeling  in 
his  pockets,  where  some  luckless  vial,  from  too  great 
pressure,  had  broken  in  pieces.  '  Sure  !'  he  would  say, 
pulling  out  his  hand,  red  with  some  high-colored  drug, 
'  I  have  broken  that  tincture  all  to  smash.' 

"  At  such  times,  I  have  sat  down  before  him  and 
laughed  till  I  cried,  but  he  never  seemed  in  the  slight 
est  degree  offended  with  any  thing  I  did.  Giving  me 


64  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

one  of  his  looks,  he  would  perhaps  ask,  '  How  is  your 
digestion  ?'  and  then  laughing  himself  most  immoderately, 
his  face  would  directly  become  calm  and  sedate  again. 
Professionally,  I  suppose,  he  was  one  of  the  best  read 
men  in  the  state,  and  his  untiring  kindness  and  perse 
verance  in  cases  even  of  small  importance,  was  most 
remarkable.  Day  after  day,  and  night  after  night,  he 
would  be  about  his  patients,  and  still  the  same  kind 
face  and  unflagging  attention  to  them.  His  inquiries 
were  thousand-fold ;  and  if  you  answered  correctly,  it 
was  very  strange  if  he  did  not  ferret  out  the  trouble. 
Whether  he  knew  how  much  humor  he  carried  about 
in  his  looks  and  actions  is  perhaps  doubtful.  I  remem 
ber,  it  was  the  one  puzzling  thing,  which  I  could  not 
quite  determine.  I  think,  however,  he  had  a  remote 
idea  of  it. 

"  But  I  am  making  a  long  story.  The  old  Doctor 
at  last  got  poorly — we  called  him  old,  though  he  was 
in  the  full  prime  of  life.  There  was  no  great  change  in 
his  appearance,  but  it  was  evident  that  he  was  getting 
feeble,  and  he  would  sometimes  drop  a  word  or  two,  in 
timating  that  he  did  not  expect  to  practise  much  more : 
he  had  his  troubles  also,  but  of  those  I  shall  not  venture 
to  speak  :  I  will  only  say  that  the  Doctor  found  himself 
quite  lonely  in  the  world.  Foreseeing  his  death  a  few 


DRIVE    TO    THE    BBYARS'.  65 

weeks  before  it  took  place,  lie  went  up  to  a  little  hamlet 
by  the  river  side,  about  six  miles  out  of  town,  and, — 
as  I  believe, — with  a  determination  to  die  there : — I 
Avent  up  to  see  him  while  he  was  there,  with  the  hope  of 
getting  him  to  prescribe  for  a  little  girl  then  very  poorly, 
and  also  to  persuade  him  to  come  and  take  my  room 
and  make  his  home  with  us.  But  it  was  all  of  no  avail : 
— '  The  little  girl  will  outlive  me,' — said  he, — '  and  at 
your  house  I  should  have  the  whole  village  about  me : 
Have  you  heard  the  stories  they  are  getting  up  about 
me  ?  Ah,  well,  let  them  talk.' 

"  Not  a  week  from  this,  word  came  to  me,  then  some 
distance  from  home,  that  the  Doctor  had  failed  rapidly, 
and  been  brought  back  to  the  village,  and  was  thought 
to  be  dying.  I  hurried  home,  but  arrived  only  in  time 
to  see  him  buried :  even  then  he  had  not  been  taken  to 
any  room  in  the  village  that  was  familiar  to  him,  but 
was  left  at  a  strange  house.  I  only  mention  this,  how 
ever,  as  an  incident  of  his  death,  for  they  were  very  kind 
people. 

"  The  funeral  was  at  the  church,  and  never  before  or 
since,  has  that  solemn  service  seemed  so  solemn  as  at 
that  time.  In  fact  I  never  had  thought  of  it :  perhaps 
never  had  heard  it  before.  I  was  standing  with  the  con 
gregation  when  the  clergyman  entered  the  church,  but 


66  UP-COUNTEY    LETTERS^ 

as  his  voice  rose  clear  and  distinct,  with  those  words : 
'  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life,' — the  whole  house 
reeled  with  me,  and  I  dropped  into  a  seat  and  cried  like 
a  child. 

"  All  the  rest  of  the  service,  but  more  especially  the 
singing,  only  added  to  my  intense  excitement,  and  I  re 
member  very  well  that  I  did  not  recover  myself  during 
that  day. 

"After  the  service,  I  joined  in  the  procession,  and  in  a 
beautiful  spot,  just  a  little  out  of  the  village,  we  laid  the 
old  Doctor  away :  and  this  was  the  man,"  said  Frank 
"  who  had  no  home  in  which  to  die." 

As  my  friend  finished  his  talk  about  the  Doctor, 
Johnny  was  reported,  with  the  mare  and  a  lantern  to 
guide  us  home.  Frank  offered  his  services,  which  Tidy 
took  upon  herself  to  decline,  and  with  some  spirit ;  again 
he  insisted  and  again  she  wholly  declined.  I  looked 
about  to  see  what  was  the  occasion  of  so  much  em 
phasis,  but  with  no  success. 

It  was  veiy  dark.  Heavy  clouds  were  floating  slowly 
about,  and  streaks  of  moonlight  gleaming  only  here  and 
there  at  long  intervals.  I  drove  the  mare  myself,  and 
it  would  have  done  your  heart  good,  sir,  to  see  the 
beast  pick  her  way  so  carefully — just  as  she  used  to  do 
years  ago,  when  I  drove  so  often  at  midnight  through 


DRIVE   TO    THE    BRYARS'.  07 

the  deep  pine-woods,  down  in  that  rough  river  country, 
where  I  worked  out  the  best  of  my  days.  Time  and 
again  in  those  nights,  when  I  could  not  even  see  Jenny 
herself,  I  would  drop  the  reins  loosely  upon  her  back, 
and  let  her  pick  her  way  through  the  darkness. 

Always  she  brought  me  out  safe,  and  always  of  her 
own  accord  going  with  the  extremest  care  in  places 
which  she  knew  to  be  very  perilous. 

In  the  same  way  she  now  threw  her  short,  pointed 
ears  forward  and  back,  as  much  as  to  say — "  The  diffi 
culties  are  amazing,  but  never  fear :  I  know  the  way." 
Johnny  went  ahead  with  the  lantern — a  great  annoy 
ance,  unless  it  is  pitch  dark. 

Soon  we  came  within  hearing  of  the  dogs.  "We  said 
but  little,  being  all  (myself  by  no  means  excepted)  very 
much  impressed  with  Frank's  reminiscence  of  the  old 
Doctor. 

As  we  drove  slowly  up  the  yard,  my  father  came 
to  the  south  door,  with  a  lighted  candle  in  his  hand, 
shouting,  Who's  there  ?"  and  crazing  the  dogs  with  the 
pleasant  fiction  that  they  were  engaged  with  the  enemy. 
It  ended  with  their  jumping  in  and  out  of  the  wagon 
and  all  over  every  body  before  any  one  could  alight. 
Pompey,  however,  whose  caution  is  large,  continued  at 
a  distance  with  an  incessant  yelp,  until  all  possible  doubt 
was  removed. 


68  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

After  this  long,  long  talk,  sir,  upon  these  trifles,  the 
day  is  done,  and  with  it  closes  the  week. 
It  is  Saturday  night  again. 

Addio,  Z.  P. 


IX. 


Jane,  1850. 

ANOTHER  Sunday  —  the  glad  day  of  the  week  —  has  come 
to  us  —  made  its  bright  path  in  the  sky,  and  passed  over 
to  other  lands.  It  is  almost  midnight  :  the  breath  of 
the  week-days,  like  the  chill  of  the  early  dawn,  is  not 
yet  felt.  I  shall  sleep  over  into  the  bustling  to-morrow 
with  wet  eyes,  and  a  throbbing  but  joyful  pulse. 

Years  ago  it  was  our  custom  on  this  night  to  gather 
here,  or  at  Rambleton  House,  and  sing  our  old  Connecti 
cut  hymns.  My  father  always  took  the  lead,  walking  the 
room  back  and  forth,  and  gesticulating,  sometimes  in 
rather  an  extraordinary  manner.  The  occasion  was  one 
of  solemnity,  but  mainly  it  was  a  time  of  praise  and 
thanksgiving. 

"We  formed,  at  this  time,  a  large  circle  ;  and  it  re- 


70  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

quired  a  strong  and  powerful  leader,  like  my  father,  to 
keep  us  in  control.  Sometimes  that  office  was  assigned 
to  me ;  but  in  such  case,  we  always  failed  in  reaching 
that  grand  movement  which  my  father  commanded. 

After  such  a  failure,  my  father  would  rise  from  his 
seat,  look  round  upon  us  with  a  smile,  and  dash  into  the 
same  tune  with  great  force  and  emphasis  :  after  which 
he  would  seat  himself,  and  remark,  in  a  modest  way,  that 
he  had  sung  that  tune  "  more  than  forty  years  ago :" 
Had  learned  it,  perhaps,  on  Litchfield  Hill ;  and  the  first 
time  it  was  ever  sung  was  at  such  an  ordination, — and 
was  composed  by  such  a  one,  expressly  for  that  purpose. 
As  to  myself,  I  had  been  thoroughly  trained  by  my 
father,  years  ago,  for  hours  at  a  time,  on  rainy  mornings, 
in  the  most  difficult  tunes  he  could  select :  each  takino- 

o 

a  different  part,  and  my  father  dashing  through  his  with 
great  spirit  and  precision.  Pausing  occasionally,  he 

Avould  explain  to  me  how  Mr.  W — th,  or  Mr. ,  or 

the  celebrated  Mr.  D — bble,  sang  the  same.  At  these 
times,  we  sang,  also,  old  anthems,  now  long  since  laid 
away  (except  now  and  then  that  we  raise  them,  as  it 
were,  from  the  dead)  :  such  as  "  I  beheld,  and  lo ! " 
(from  Haydn's  Creation,)  "The  Heavens  are  telling," 
&c. 

On  the  Sunday  night  meetings  of  which   I  was 


SUNDAY   NIGHT.  71 

speaking,  we  usually  sang  "Denmark,"  towards  the 
close  ;  and  for  the  last,  a  piece  composed,  or  rather  col 
lected,  by  my  father,  from  the  closing  passages  of  four 
different  anthems — one  by  Dr.  Madan,  from  the  "  Lock 
Hospital,"  and  the  others  by  eminent  composers.  The 
words  were — 

To  our  Almighty  King 

Wonder  and  praise — wonder  and  praise  belong. 

Praise  him  above,  ye  heavenly  hosts, 
Praise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. 

Thine  all  the  glory,  man's  the  boundless  bliss. 
Shining  in  immortal  bloom  1 

These  passages  being  very  fine,  we  were  all  familiar 
with  them,  and  sang  them  with  great  power.  They 
formed,  altogether,  a  very  grand  Doxology  ;  after  sing 
ing  which,  it  was  my  father's  custom,  with  some  abrupt 
ness,  to  say  "  Good  night,"  and  immediately  retire. 

Tliis  was  years  ago.  We  meet  now — those  of  us 
who  are  left — but  more  rarely.  We  sing  the  same 
songs :  but  we  are  not  all  here.  Some  have  faded  away, 
and  others  are  scattered  about  the  land.  Shall  we  ever 
meet  again  to  sing  those  old  tunes  ?  Not  here.  Wo 


72  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

can  have  but  an  echo  of  those  days  now.  But  we  may 
meet — all  meet — in  a  better  home.  (May  our  Father 
in  Heaven  grant  that  this  be  so.)  We  may  all  meet 
there  and  sing  them  again,  with  the  Hosts  of  Heaven — 
with  the  "thousands  and  thousands,  and  ten  times 
thousands,"  who  surround  the  throne  of  the  Lamb,  and 
cease  not  day  nor  night,  saying,  "  Holy,  holy,  holy,  Lord 
God  Almighty,  which  was,  and  is,  and  is  to  come." 

All  gathered  at  one  hearth — father,  and  mother, 
and  sisters,  and  brothers — to  walk  in  white  robes — to 
sing  there  the  song  of  the  Redeemed  in  Glory !  Oh, 
my  Father  and  my  God,  will  this  be  so?  All — all 
gathered  in  that  happy  home  !  Will  it  be  so  ? 

I  have  been,  to-night,  in  one  of  my  sad  but  joyous 
moods :  silent  and  bewildered :  the  images  of  old 
friends  and  old  times  about  me.  It  is  not  long  since 
my  voice  was  strong  and  firm.  It  is  so  now ;  but  in 
this  strange  humor — this  indomitable  wilfulness  of  the 
heart — I  have  no  power  over  it.  I  can  but  sit,  speech 
less,  and  look  up  with  a  trembling  hope  to  the  kind 
Heaven  which  is  over  all. 

I  was  sitting,  to-night,  leaned  back  in  my  chair, 
while  T.  sat  by  the  hearth,  gazing  silently  upon  the 
dying  embers,  when  my  father  came  in,  and  without 
speaking  to  us,  began  walking  slowly  across  the  room. 


SUNDAY    NIGHT.  73 

Presently,  lie  began  an  old  anthem,  in  a  low  tone,  his 
voice — a  very  unusual  thing — trembling,  and  at  times 
almost  failing  him,  while  he  walked  slowly  back  and 
forth.  The  words,  as  well  as  I  remember  them,  were 
"  Farewell,  farewell,  my  friends,  and  God  grant  that  we 
may  meet  again,  where  trouble  shall  cease  and  harmony 
abound."  As  he  finished  singing,  he  turned  to  me  and 
asked  what  old  piece  it  was.  "  Strange,"  he  said,  "  that 
I  should  think  of  it  now.  I  do  not  remember  of  singing 
it  in  more  than  forty  years.  It  must  be  one  of  the  old 
pieces  we  used  to  sing  on  Litchfield  Hill ;"  and  again  he 
repeated  it,  slowly,  and  as  if  searching  carefully  for  the 
old  tones  so  long  buried — "  Farewell,  farewell,  my 
friends ! " 

He  retired  soon  after,  but  presently  returned,  with  a 
black  leather-covered  book  (Songs  of  the  Temple, 
1819),  took  a  seat  by  the  table,  by  the  side  of  my  wife, 
and  opening  the  book  carefully,  turned  to  an  old  tune 
not  at  all  familiar  to  me,  but  of  a  soft  and  plaintive 
strain.  It  was  very  simple  in  tone,  but  exceedingly 
difficult  in  construction.  My  father  sang  it  through 
once  by  himself,  and  then  asked  us  to  sing  it  with  him. 
I  was  in  that  foolish  condition  I  have  mentioned — my 
eyes  troubled  with  tears — and  could  make  no  reply.  I 
was,  in  fact,  pretending  to  sleep.  My  father  looked  at 
4 


74  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

me  a  moment,  over  his  glasses,  but  said  no  more,  and 
began  singing  again  :  my  wife  joining  with  him.  These 
are  the  Avords  : — 

Tis  finished,  so  the  Saviour  cried, 
And  meekly  bowed  his  head  and  died : 
Tis  finished — yes — the  race  is  run ; 
The  battle's  fought — the  victory  won  ! 

They  sang  it  again  and  again,  with  the  same  words. 
My  wife  has  a  sweet  voice,  and  they  both  sang  in  low 
and  subdued  tones ;  my  father  using  but  little  of  his 
usual  gesticulation,  only  raising  and  lowering  his  hands 
slowly,  as  in  prayer.  Once  at  the  close  of  the  verse,  he 
looked  at  T.  with  a  smile,  and  remarked,  gently,  that 
she  did  not  quite  touch  a  certain  note.  "  But,"  said  he, 
in  the  same  low  tone,  "  it  is  very  intricate."  Again  and 
again,  they  repeated  it,  and  the  words  still  throb  at  my 
heart — 

The  battle's  fought — the  victory  won ! 

At  length  my  father  rose,  bowed,  without  speaking, 
and  retired.  T.  came  and  sat  by  me,  silently,  for  a  few 
moments,  and  went  up  to  her  rest. 

And  now  the  midnight  has  come,  my  friend,  and 
Sunday  night  is  over.  I  must  go  now.  But  I  shall 


SUNDAY    NIGHT.  75 

still  see  that  picture  of  youth  and  age  bending  over  the 
old  book — the  calm  and  prayerful  face  of  T.  and  the 
grave  but  rapt  look  of  my  father — I  shall  still  hear,  in 
the  morning  watch,  those  sweet  sad  tones,  and  those 
glorious  words : — 

"Tis  finished — yes — the  race  is  run : 
The  battle  fought — the  victory  won ! 

Addio.  Z.  P. 


X. 


YOUR  conjecture  is  right:  my  friend  Frank  is  the 
same — changed  by  years  and  illness — older  and  wiser 
perhaps :  and  you  are  that  Professor  whom  he  met  at 
the  famous  city  of  one  house  on  the  St.  John's,  where, 
so  long  ago,  you  ate  strawberries  together.  Other  years 
afterward,  I  also  stopped  at  the  same  place  with  Father 
Williams,  and  ate  strawberries  from  the  same  bed. 

When  you  knew  him,  he  was  coasting  about  in 
search  of  health,  which  had  escaped  him ;  and  all  about 
the  world  he  has  not  found  it  again.  He  will  not  find 
it  here.  In  this  contrivance  of  flesh  and  blood  by  which 
we  manage  to  live,  he  will  not  find  it.  He  must  look 
further.  And  this  is  Frank's  opinion. 

This  world — I  have  heard  him  say — is  well  enough 
for  a  beginning.  It  is  not  imperative  that  life,  here, 


FKANK.  77 

should  be  a  failure:  not  quite.  Something  may  be 
done :  as  much  as  God  designed, — but  to  live  on  so, — 
Oh  my  dear  Pun,  would  it  not  be  ludicrous  ?  say  rather 
would  it  not  be  madness  ? 

You  observe  from  this,  that  he  is  by  no  means  elated 
with  the  present  state  of  things.  He  does  not  care  for  a 
long  residence  in  it :  and  this  is  why  he  lives.  In  any 
other  mood,  he  would  die  to-morrow.  Over-anxiety, 
whether  to  live  or  die,  would  close  the  story. 

The  beautiful  things  which  turn  up  here  and  there 
find  a  warm  welcome  with  him ;  but  this  early  fore 
thought,  looking  forward  to  the  end,  has  taken  from  life 
the  peculiar  charm,  which  is  so  tempting  to  the  world  at 
large.  Of  course  he  never  plans  or  builds  up  future 
possibilities :  more  often  he  amuses  himself  with  the  im 
portant  hurry  and  bustle  of  the  world. 

"  There  is  a  man,"  he  will  say,  speaking  of  some  one 
who  is  constantly  building  and  planning  for  future 
years, — "  the  surprise  to  that  man  when  he  comes  to  die 
will  not  be  so  much  that  he  is  dead,  as  that  he  cannot 
go  right  on  with  the  matter  he  had  in  hand.  But  what 
will  be  his  consternation  at  that !  so  petty,  so  annoying, 
such  a  monstrous  impertinence ! — '  what  is  all  this,' — 
he  will  say :  and  doubtless  it  will  be, — what  is  all 
this?" 


78  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

It  is  perhaps  safe  to  say  that  Frank  is  a  happy  and 
cheerful-hearted  man ; — but  to  the  great  world  he  is  the 
veriest  vagabone.  Money  is  nothing  to  him :  books 
only  and  friends,  are  something ;  the  birds,  the  sunlight 
and  the  sweet  south  wind;  moonlight,  the  summer 
showers,  and  lightnings,  and  all  beautiful  things  : — these 
are  something,  and  he  never  suffers  them  to  pass  without 
ministering  to  him.  Is  it  so  with  your  men  of  business, 
and  care  and  infinite  botherations,  moneyed  or  political, 
or  whatsoever  ? 

Frank  has  his  times,  however,  of  making  faces,  and 
one  of  his  luxuries,  as  he  used  to  say  to  me,  is  in  growling ; 
a  good  rich  growl  being  equal  to  a  bite  out  of  a  sour 
apple.  But  of  late  he  begins  to  tire,  even  of  growling. 

I  have  concluded — he  says — to  let  my  ailings  take 
care  of  themselves — for  what  return  do  I  get  ?  Have  I 
not  grumbled  about,  for  years,  and  tossed  and  tumbled  of 
nights,  and  looked  long  for  the  morning,  and  then  tossed 
and  tumbled  again — and  of  what  use,  I  ask  you.  Have 
I  not  wished  even  for  that  long  deep  sleep, — to  lie  down 
in  that  sweet  oblivion,  to  wake  no  more  to  aches  and  pains 
and  these  small  frettings  of  life.  Have  I  not  bathed 
and  bothered  sufficiently,  I  beg  to  know  ?  I  say  I  have. 
I  think  that  I  have.  As  Mr.  Webster  would  say, — I  do 
suppose  that  I  have.  And  now,  if  the  leg  will  ache,  let 


FRANK.  79 

it:  and  if  the  head  will  get  cloudy,  and  the  old  bones 
crumble  and  fall, — let  them!  But  I  cannot  stop  to 
bother  any  more  with  such  small  nonsense.  Life  is  too 
short  to  be  detained  with  these  impertinences.  Let  the 
leg  and  the  head  see  to  their  own  affairs : — what  is  it  all 
to  me  who  have  something  to  do  yet,  and  will  do  it,  God 
willing,  though  the  stars  fall  from  the  heavens. 

In  such  mood,  perhaps,  you  ate  strawberries  together 
and  shot  at  alligators,  years  ago,  on  the  St.  John's. 

Such,  at  least,  is  Frank  Bryars,  now,  in  this  glorious 
summer  of  1850.  Yours,  Z.  P. 


XL 


July,  1850. 

WE  have  now  fairly  entered  upon  our  up-country  sum 
mer,  and,  as  we  think,  with  the  happiest  success.  All 
the  long  day  —  like  Lamb's  "roast  pig"  —  is  enjoyable 
throughout  ;  and  we  by  no  means  refuse  the  night.  A 
glorious  summer  ! 

A  little  while  since,  I  was  lying  in  the  hammock  be 
tween  the  maples,  when  my  wife  and  Tidy  burst  upon 
me  with  great  spirit,  on  their  return  from  prayers  at  the 
parish  church.  "  Such  times  !"  said  T.,  coming  up  the 
yard  very  quickly,  with  great  brilliance  of  color,  and  em 
phasizing  through  the  air  with  her  right  fore-finger,  — 
"  Such  times  !  —  what  do  you  think  ?  there  was  no  one 
there  to  ring  the  bell,  and  so  I  thought  I  would  do  it  my 
self  ;  for  it  was  more  than  five  minutes  past  the  time  : 
but  just  as  I  had  got  it  in  a  good  ring,  the  rope  caught 


T.   AND   THE    RECTOR.  81 

somewhere,  and  took  a  flourish,  and  I  could  not  make  a 
single  sound.  Well :  what  could  be  done, — it  was  then 
ten  minutes  after  church  time.  So  the  Rector  had  to 
go  up  and  toll  the  bell  himself,  and  there  the  people  were 
coming  in,  and  he  up  in  the  belfry,  with  his  surplice  on, 
tolling  the  bell  by  hand !  But  that  isn't  all." — 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  I.  "  Lie  down  here,  both  of 
you,  side  by  side,  and  take  breath,  or  I  shall  have  to  run 
for  brandy  and  lavender." 

After  being  well  disposed  in  the  hammock,  and  T. 
had  arranged  her  right  arm,  so  that  she  could  give  the 
requisite  force  to  her  remarks,  I  permitted  her  to  go  on. 
"  But  keep  cool,"  said  I,  giving  the  hammock  a  gentle 
swing — "  and  now  proceed."  "  Why,"  said  the  lady, 
"  there  was  nobody  there  to  sing ;  and  of  course" — speak 
ing  with  a  good  deal  of  solemnity, — "  it  was  impossible 
to  omit  it,  and  so  I  rose  and  set  the  tune  myself;  and  we 
got  on  very  well,  till  just  in  the  middle  of  the  verse,  I 
found  the  tune  did  not  fit  the  metre." 

"  And  what  did  you  do  then  !"— said  I.  "  Oh"— said 
she ;  making  a  very  severe  gesture, — "  it  was  dreadful ! 
but  I  only  stopped,  and  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then 
went  on  again  with  another ;  and  what  is  more,"  she 
continued,  with  an  air  of  triumph,  "they  all  joined  in, 
and  we  sang  it  delightfully." 
4* 


82  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

"And'  what  is  more,"  said  I,  "you  have  made  your 
selves  sharp  for  dinner:  and  what  did  Tidy  do 2" 
"  Why,  she  sang  with  me,  of  cotTrse,  or  I  should  never 
have  got  through." 

"  And  where  was  Frank  ?"  I  continued. 

"He  was  not  there,"  said  Tidy,  and  springing  from 
the  hammock,  she  stepped  quickly  to  the  hall  door  and 
disappeared. 

"T.,"  said  I,  quietly,  "did  you  observe  that?" 
"  What !"  said  she,  with  some  alarm. 

"  Did  you  observe  Tidy's  manner,  Avhen  I  spoke  of 
Frank  ?" 

"  Oh  that  was  nothing  " — said  T. — "  You  don't  mean 

to  say" 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  I  do  mean  to  say" 

My  wife  rose  from  the  hammock,  and  said  with  great 
deliberation,  "  My  dear  husband  it  is  impossible  :  there 
it  nothing  in  it.  Frank  admires  her  very  much  ;  that  is 
very  evident,  and  he  may  have  his  thoughts, — but  Tidy, 
the  dear  child,  tells  me  every  motion  of  her  heart. 
Oh,  no :  not  at  all !"  and  having  disposed  for  ever  of 
this  matter,  she  remarked  a  little  upon  the  state  of  the 
parish,  and  retired. 

"Well:"  thought  I  to  myself,  taking  the  vacant 
hammock,  "  we  do  not  all  see  alike.  My  gentle  people 


T.    AND   TUB   RECTOR.  83 

have  their  ways,  and  I  have  mine ;  and  those  two  birds 
building  their  nests  in  the  vine  between  the  piazza  col 
umns,  have  theirs ;  and  there  is  a  lesson  there  of  more 
worth  than  many  conjectures." 

In  any  case  the  day  is  beautiful. 

Addio,  Z.  P. 


XII. 

tammer. 


Up-Connlry,  July  3d,  1S50 
Morning  


IT  is  almost  midsummer,  my  friend,  and  what  kind  of  a 
day  do  you  suppose  we  have — what  kind  of  a  morning  ? 
I  give  you  the  facts.  Thermometer  63o — a  sour  cold 
wind  blustering  about  (doubtless  from  the  east),  and  the 
sky  heavy  and  sad  as  November. 

How  must  the  hearts  of  the  little  people  already  be 
trembling,  lest  to-morrow,  the  great  day,  should  be  even 
like  unto  this :  what  a  national  calamity  would  that  be  ! 
It  has  been  arranged,  not  without  much  discussion,  by 
the  Rector  and  his  people,  that  the  parish  children  of  the 
school  and  Sunday  school,  should  celebrate  the  day  in 
our  grove.  Accordingly,  my  father  had  the  grass  cut 
there  yesterday,  and  it  is  lying  in  swathes  all  about  under 
the  trees,  and  only  this  rheumatic  wind  to  cure  it : — but 
great  changes  may  come  about,  before  to-morrow.  Mean- 


MIDSUMMER.  85 

time,  however,  I  am  sitting  by  a  fire,  and  have  small  in 
clination  for  out-door  affairs.  Yesterday  we  had  men 
pounding  about  on  the  top  of  the  house,  fixing  for  the 
thunder  and  lightning. 

At  every  little  distance  they  stick  a  point  out,  and  so 
bristling  is  the  whole  affair,  I  expect  we  shall  be  struck 
all  of  a  heap  the  very  first  storm  that  we  have :  so  many, 
and  so  pointed,  are  the  invitations. 

Did  you  hear  of  the  young  man  Avho  was  in  the 
habit  of  sitting  by  an  open  window,  in  thunder-storms, 
and  watching  the  lightning  playing  down  the  rod  close 
by  ?  It  was  not  I. 

I  have  not  written  for  a  day  or  two,  having  been 
more  pleasantly  occupied  in  the  society  of  our  friends 
lately  arrived  from  below.  Their  coming  has  been  an 
event  not  soon  to  be  forgotten,  but  the  arrival  of  the  baby 
with  them,  has  been  the  chief  feature  in  the  case :  be 
cause  this  baby,  be  it  observed,  is  not  an  every-day  baby. 
You  know  how  apt  babies  are,  to  be  remarkable, — but, 
sir,  perhaps  you  never  saw  a  baby  like  this  : — I  presume 
to  say,  you  never  did.  That  it  is  fair  and  round-faced, 
and  has  a  forehead  like  Daniel  Webster's :  that  it  never 
cries :  that  it  is  always  "jolly,"  so  to  speak : — these 
things  are  something,  but  what  I  have  to  add,  is  the 
penetrating  sagacity  with  which  it  selects  out  one  par- 


86  UP-COUNTKY    LETTERS. 

ticular  person,  and  wherever  that  person  may  go — up, 
down,  or  sideways — there  follow  the  baby's  eyes  with  the 
pertinacity  of  a  magnet.  And  who  do  you  suppose  is 
that  individual  ? — The  father  ?  the  mother  ?  or  my  wife  ? 
or  Tidy  ?  or  grandfather  ?  No  !  sir — 1  am  that  indi 
vidual  !  You  will  ask,  perhaps,  if  I  am  all  the  time  dand 
ling  it :  Never  had  the  baby  in  my  arms  but  once  in  my 
life,  and  then, — but  as  I  was  saying,  there  is  no  doubt  it 
will  be  an  extraordinary  child.  I  have  already  told  the 
mother  to  seize  the  first  opportunity,  of  its  being  able  to 
handle  things — to  present  to  it  a  brush  and  a  pen :  one 
or  the  other  it  will  grasp  and  use  immediately  with  the 
greatest  delight,  and  I  prophesy  it  will  take  the  pen,  and 
if  the  first  thing  it  does  is  to  put  that  pen  in  its  mouth, 
it  will,  in  my  opinion,  show  its  preference  in  an  undoubt 
ed  manner :  it  will  be  a  sign :  as  the  gentle-people  say. 
Au  revoir,  Professor :  I  have  to-day  all  the  house 
upon  my  hands.  Yours,  Z.  P. 


XIII. 


Up-Country,  July  3d—  Evening. 

THE  cool  morning  ran  rapidly  up  into  a  hot  noon,  and 
the  hot  noon  bred  the  lightning,  and  we  have  had  a 
waking-up  all  over  these  borders,  with  rain  in  torrents, 
such  as  has  not  been  seen  for  many  days.  All  over  the 
black  sky  flew  the  red  lightning,  brilliant,  wavy  and  zig 
zag,  and  close  behind  followed  the  big  thunder  :  rain, 
hail,  and  the  great  winds  northwesterly,  and  the  thun 
ders  and  lightnings,  —  they  all  came  down  together.  The 
Shag-bark,  high  and  furious  before,  now  roared  by,  dash 
ing  itself  in  foam  and  spray,  and  under  all,  you  heard 
the  deep  low  shock  of  the  falls  tumbling  down  the  hills 
from  the  great  Passamaquoddy. 

Now  was  the  time  for  our  new  lightning  conductor 
to  be  in  its  element  No  doubt  it  behaved  itself  bravely, 
catching  up  the  winged  thunder  as  it  flew  down  within 


88  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

reach  of  its  spider  arms,  and  so  silently  and  swiftly  car 
rying  it  home  again  to  mother  earth.  How  it  must 
have  hissed  and  sputtered,  with  the  white  lightning  and 
the  rain  both  pouring  down  together !  How  its  points 
must  have  bristled  and  snapped  !  The  next  storm  that 
comes,  I  shall  seat  myself  at  a  safe  distance  in  the  garden, 
under  an  umbrella,  and  watch  the  proceedings  through 
an  opera  glass. 

Did  I  tell  you  that  the  storm  lasted  till  near  mid 
night  ?  Kate  and  Ann,  poor  things,  put  up  blankets 
and  counterpanes  to  keep  out  the  sharp  eyes  of  the  light 
ning,  and  even  the- baby  cried  out  at  one  very  sharp 
flash. 

In  the  very  thick  of  the  commotion,  and  when  it 
was  maddest,  my  father  came  striding  through  the 
rooms,  singing  a  fragment  of  an  old  war-time  song : — 

The  fifteenth  of  October 

The  year  of  eighty-one : 
Cormvallis,  he  surrendered 

To  General  Washington : 

Don't  you  see  the  bomb-shells  flying  7 

The  cannon  loud  do  roar : 
De  Grasse  is  in  the  harbor 

And  Washington's  on  shore  ! 


THE    STORM.  89 

You  see,  sir,  that  we  can  do  some  things  even  in  this 
high  latitude. — Don't  suppose  that  you  have  all  the 
thunder  and  lightning. 

When  are  you  coming  up  ?  If  you  don't  come, 
write  and  say  all  manner  of  things. 

Yours,          Z.  P. 


XIV. 


Jrolt  anb 


WE  went  down  on  the  river-bank,  this  afternoon  : 
Frank,  with  his  cigar,  and  Mr.  Pundison  with  the  un 
disturbed  memory  of  a  happy  dinner. 

It  is  pleasant,  sir,  to  escape  from  this  inevitable  /. 
Let  us  say  we,  as  often  as  may  be  convenient.  For  we, 
thou,  he,  she,  or  it,  are  always  better  —  are  they  not  — 
than  whatever  I  ?  Doubtless  :  and  this  is  why  it  is 
pleasant  to  ride,  walk,  play  at  wicket,  or  mingle  in  city 
crowds  :  so,  to  escape  this  intense  personality,  this  per 
petual  introversion  ;  and  see  other  things  than  I  :  to 
meet  thou,  her,  and  him,  and  the  great  wide-armed 
world  of  nature,  sunshine,  and  clouds,  and  the  sightless 
winds,  waters,  and  grasses,  and  the  young  flowers. 

Something  like  this,  as  we  walked  down,  I  remarked, 
also,  to  Frank. 


F RANK   AND    M R.   PuNDISON.  91 

"  All  which,"  said  Frank,  "  is  very  well.  In  town, 
however,  where  the  second  and  third  persons  number 
hundreds  of  thousands,  are  we  more  modest  ?  Are  we 
crushed  with  the  sense  of  other  existences  ?  Do  we  not 
rather  return,  always,  from  mingling  with  the  great 
crowd,  with  a  still  heartier  liking  for  the  home  which  is 
so  concentred  in  I :  and  with  a  strong  determination 
to  take  excellent  care  of  it  ?  Oh  no,  Pun :  let  us  love 
the  country,  only  remembering  always,  that  towns  are, 
and  that  thereby  we  have  the  morning  papers.  As  to 
the  I,  it  is  inevitable.  No  one  can  be  rid  of  it :  at 
least,"  said  he,  with  a  subdued  voice,  "  not  here." 

Sitting  by  the  river-side,  we  pondered  upon  events : 
the  past,  the  future,  and  the  warm  present.  Therm,  at 
90°  as  we  left  the  south  piazza.  But  there  is  a  cool 
ness  in  the  sound  of  running  waters.  It  was  pleasant, 
therefore,  by  the  river,  and  the  silent  vote  was  that  the 
day  was  surpassingly  fine. 

Frank  finished  his  first  cigar,  and  lighting  a  second, 
opened  Tennyson  to  page  158,  vol.  ii. 

And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 
And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold, 

And  far  across  the  hills  they  went, 
In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old, 

Across  the  hills  and  far  away 
Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim,— 


92  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

"  What  a  delightful  time  they  must  have  had.  Pun, 
would  you  like  to  travel  ?" 

"  No  :  I  have  travelled.  What  is  the  use  of  travel 
except  to  come  home  again  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  suppose  you  take  your  home  with  you  ? 
For,  you  observe,  '  On  her  lover's  arm  she  leant,'  and 
moreover,  '  Deep  into  the  dying  day,  the  happy  maiden 
followed  him  : '  and,  in  another  place,  it  reads,  '  Through 
all  the  world  she  followed  him.'  So  Ruth,  also, 
,  Whither  thou  goest,'  <fcc. — don't  you  see,  sir,  that  it's 
important  to  travel  ?" 

Mr.  Pundison  was  resting  from  the  fatigue  of  his 
late  argument  upon  personalities,  and  made  no  reply. 

"  That  is,"  continued  Frank,  after  a  considerable 
pause,  "  to  travel  in  this  way,  with  some  one  following 
you  all  about  the  world,  '  Beyond  the  night,  across  the 
day  ; '  "  and  rising,  he  skipped  a  stone  far  out  into  the 
river,  and  seated  himself  again,  on  a  bed  of  moss. 

"  Pun,"  said  he,  suddenly,  with  an  indifferent  man 
ner,  "  do  you  think  I  ought  to  marry  ?"  "  Why  not  2" 
said  Mr.  P.,  who  was  nearly  asleep.  "  Why  not ! "  said 
Frank,  warming  indignantly ;  "  why  that  is  the  whole 
heart  of  the  matter.  Observe  !  Have  I  the  right  to  take 
any  one  with  me,  on  such  a  journey  as  this  life  must 
be  to  me  ?  To  embody  with  this  life,"  he  continued, 


FRANK    AND  MB.  PUNDISON.          93 

rising  and  walking  to  and  fro,  and  addressing,  by  turns, 
and  with  a  solemn  pause  to  each,  the  river  and  the 
sky,  and  a  king-bird  that  looked  down  shyly  at  him,  from 
the  top  branch  of  a  hickory — "  to  embody — to  fasten  upon 
this  life,  health  and  youth,  and  hope,  and  the  pureness 
of  a  holy  and  glad  soul  ?  To  make  this  young  child  old 
before  her  time  ?  Does  God  design  such  things  ?  Is  it 
right — is  it  right — oh,  is  it  right  2" 

The  river  made  no  reply :  the  king-bird  was  non 
committal,  waiting  for  a  bee  ;  otherwise  he  would  have 
had  an  opinion :  and  Mr.  Pundison  was  in  his  usual 
after-dinner  forgetfulness. 

"  Pah  !"  said  Frank,  "  the  man's  asleep  !  What  a 
happy  dreamer  he  is,  with  his  T.,  and  Tidy  and  the 
dogs,  and  his  easy  way  of  napping.  I  wonder  if  he 
could  spare  any  of  them — could  he  spare  Tidy,  for 
instance  ?  And  what  would  T.  do  ?  " 

At  this  juncture  Mr.  Pundison  awoke,  and  related  a 
remarkable  dream  at  great  length  and  detail,  and  wound 
up  by  asking  Frank  if  he  believed  in  dreams. 

"  Bah ! "  said  Frank,  "  that  isn't  the  question. 
The  question  is" — rising  and  placing  both  hands  on  his 
friend's  shoulders — "  the  question  is,  do  you  think,  my 
dear  Pun,  do  you  think" — 

The  pause  being  a  very  long  one,  and  Frank  con- 


94  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

tinuing  to  look  him  very  steadily  in  the  eye,  Mr.  P.  sug 
gested,  "  Well— do  I  think  what  ?" 

"  Do  you  think" — relaxing  his  grasp,  and  a  smile  of 
consciousness  returning  to  his  pale  face — "  do  you  think 
— it  will  rain  to-morrow  ?" 

"  I  think  it  will,"  said  Mr.  P.  very  gravely,  "  you  can 
see  it  in  the  sunset — there  is  the  rain  tint ;  but  the  next 
day,  Frank,  will  be  glorious !" 


XV. 


Pundison  House,  Up-Country,  ) 
July  10,  1850.  f 

THE  summer  goes  on  royally.  That  blast  from  the  last 
of  the  icebergs  has  passed  away,  and  now  the  days  and 
nights  roll  softly  and  radiantly  through  the  warm  airs 
of  80  and  90  of  Fahrenheit. 

Frank  sends  me,  this  morning,  one  of  the  pleasant 
results  of  this  delicious  weather  ;  all  rocked  out  in  verse, 
after  his  fashion. 

We  interchange  thus,  every  thing,  even  to  gems  of 
the  first  water.  What  is  mine  is  his,  and  what  is  his  is 
mine,  to  the  bottom  of  our  pockets  :  and  when  he  dies 
(and  may  the  sweet  Heavens  keep  the  day  far  distant), 
I  fancy  I  shall  not  stay  long  away  from  him. 

T.  is  discussing  travel  —  a  look  about  town  —  a  little 
of  the  sea-air,  and  so  forth. 


96  UP-COUNTBY   LETTERS. 

If  we  go,  it  will  be  in  a  circle — and  a  small  one,  I 
hope — returning  with  swift  and  glad  wings.  Shall  we 
meet  any  where  ?  I  inclose  the  "  Thanksgiving." 

Yours,  Z.  P. 


XVI. 


By  Frank  Bryars.    July,  1350. 

THE  day  went  on  brightly,  till  nearly  at  noon, 
When  the  thunder,  and  lightning,  and  rain, 

Came  down  in  broad  sheets,  and  the  burning  air  soon 
Was  cool  and  fragrant  again. 

All  the  rest  of  the  day,  the  black  masses  lay, 

Shutting  us  up  in  the  gloom  of  a  night 
Which  arrived  all  too  soon ;  and  the  beautiful  birds 

Shuddered  and  looked  for  the  light. 

But,  just  at  the  sunset,  the  clouds  roll'd  away;    • 

And  the  blue  of  the  sky,  kind  thoughts,  sweet  words, 
And  the  red  light,  that  went  down  with  the  day, 
Seem'd  all  one  with  the  song  of  the  birds ; 
And  the  birds  sang  all  the  night  long. 
5 


98  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

Far  down  in  the  meadows  came  up  their  sweet  voices, 

Each,  one  and  all,  in  its  silver  tone  cast ; 
And  with  all  their  might  singing — as  one  who  rejoices, 

And  says  a  thanksgiving  for  storms  that  are  past 

Then  soon  came  the  moonlight,  and  play'd  in  the  trees, 
The  thorough-clad  maples  that  shade  all  the  house, 

Nodding  and  tossing  their  heads  in  the  breeze — 

The  sweet  summer  breeze  that  came  up  from  the  south : 
Where  the  birds  sang  all  the  night  long. 

Late  in  the  night  we  went  up  to  our  rooms — 
Rooms  light  and  airy,  set  apart  for  sweet  rest, 

"With  wide-open  windows  which  look'd  from  the  east, 
All  round  through  the  south  to  the  west. 

There  lay  the  white  moonlight,  chasing  the  glooms, 
While  the  maples  were  nodding  and  tossing  without, 

And  the  sweet  music  flew  round  through  the  rooms ; 
Sometimes  as  in  prayer,  sometimes  with  a  shout — 
Of  the  birds  singing  all  the  night  long. 

Reclin'd  upon  couches,  we  thought  not  of  sleep, 
But  mark'd  how  the  moonlight  seem'd  writing  out  words, 

On  the  bright-tinted  carpet,  noiseless  and  deep, 
For  this  beautiful  song  of  the  birds. 

But  looking  we  nodded,  and  nodding  we  dreamed ; 
And  the  thunder,  and  lightning,  and  rain, 


THANKSGIVING.  99 

Precisely  as  yesterday — only  worse — seemed 
To  come  back  to  our  spirits  again, 

While  the  birds  sang  all  the  night  long. 

Then  again — all  the  day — the  black  masses  lay, 

Shutting  us  up  in  the  gloom  of  a  night 
Which  had  come  all  too  soon :  and,  like  the  sweet  birds, 

We  shudder'd  and  look'd  for  the  light. 

But  waking,  ere  morning,  behold  'twas  a  dream — 
This  return  of  the  storm — for  the  sky  was  still  blue, 

And  the  music  still  came,  and  flew  like  the  gleam 
Of  the  moonlight  playing  the  maple-boughs  through, 
Of  the  birds  singing  all  the  night  long. 

Straightway  I  arose,  and  call'cl  out  to  my  friends : 

"  Let  us  sing  now  a  thanksgiving  song : 
Or  again,  in  some  form,  we  shall  dream  of  that  storm, 

Lo!  the  birds  sing  all  the  night  lony  !" 

Then  we  sang  a  glad  song,  and  the  rest  that  came  after, 
Illumined  with  light,  was  so  tranquil  and  deep, 

That  never  was  song,  or  gladness,  or  laughter, 
So  rich  and  heart-filling  as  that  morning  sleep ; 
When  the  birds  sang  all  the  night  long. 

Frank  sends  me  a  note,  in  regard  to  the  above,  as 
follows : 

"  You  remember  the  storm,  the  dark  afternoon,  the 


100  UP-COUNTRY  LETTERS. 

sunset,  and  the  moonlight,  I  suppose  [I  had  forgotten 
about  it,  but  Tidy  remembers  it  minutely,  and  says  she 
heard  the  very  same  birds  :  having  waked  in  the  night, 
after  a  strange  dream  she  had,  and  which  she  recounts 
with  great  vivacity]  ;  but  you  may  not  have  heard  the 
birds  sing  :  I  did,  however,  and  heard  them  afterwards, 
on  going  to  bed,  and  deep  in  the  night ;  whether  I 
arose  and  called  my  friends  together  for  a  song  is  a 
matter  not  so  easily  determined — I  may  have  dreamed 
that  part  of  it.  But  I  made  up  the  poem,  much  as  it  is 
now,  before  daylight;  ah,  my  friend,  if  such  things 
would  happen  every  day,  that  I  might  sing  out  the 
remnant  of  my  life  in  song,  song  and  thanksgiving !  Is 
there  such  a  life  anywhere,  do  you  suppose  ?  and  should 
•we  tire  of  it,  think  you  ?  I  shall  soon  know,  perhaps. 

"  *  Like  this,'  as  our  friend  C.  says,  like  it,  oh,  Z.  P., 
and  say  it  is  charmante — say  it  is  enchanting  !  say  it  is 
— let  me  see — say  it  is  heart- filling,  and  then,  may  be, 
some  fine  morning,  I  will  send  you  some  more. 

"  P.  S. — You  are  not  to  imagine,  that  it  was  the  pop 
lar  blackbirds  I  heard  the  other  night  Sir,  they  are 
gabblers,  compared  with  the  singing  that  came  up  from 
those  meadows.  Do  you  think  they  were  meadow 
larks  ?  They  came  from  the  meadows,  and  from  the 
river-side,  and  occasionally  seemed  to  be  all  about  the 


THANKSGIVING.  101 

4p  * 

house,  pausing  now  and  then,  and  then  bursting  out 
again,  and  making  it  all  ring  with  their  sweet  singings. 
Like  it — like  it~oh,  Z.  P.,  like  it  exceedingly. 

FRANK  BRYARS." 


XVIL 


July  15,  —  ,  Piazza. 

A  GREAT  day!  ten  o'clock,  ante-rneridian,  and  thermo 
meter  at  85°.  I  shall  get  two  naps  to-day.  One  before 
dinner,  and  one  after.  Pre,  and  post-prandial.  One  in 
the  hammock  between  the  maples  (before  it  gets  too 
hot)  ;  one  in  the  leather-back,  on  the  piazza. 

How  did  you  like  the  "  Thanksgiving  ?  "  Cleverish  ! 
I  think  so.  But  Frank,  poor  fellow,  deceives  himself 
about  those  things,  and  so,  I  fear,  does  one.  other,  who 
sees  wonders  in  all  Frank  does.  Doubtless,  he  wrote  it 
off  easily  and  rapidly  ;  but  what  then  ?  What  does  it 
all  amount  to  ?  You  may  laugh,  but  I  believe  I  could 
do  it  myself,  half-a-dozen  times  a  day.  Give  me  a  sub 
ject,  sir,  and  observe  the  consequences  —  the  rhythms 
and  myths  which  shall  come  to  you  all  in  the  latest 
and  highest  style  of  art.  Moreover,  —  who  ever  heard  of 
a  sheet  of  thunder  ? 


THE  HAMMOCK  AND  THE  PLACER.      103 

A  great  day.  "  A  July  day,"  as  some  one  says, 
"hot  and  glorious."  I  saw  it  in  a  paper — a  Boston 
paper.  It  was  about  a  book,  and  I  would  give  a  gold 
piece  to  know  who  said  it.  "  Hot  and  glorious ! " 

I  was  almost  asleep,  just  now,  when  all  in  the  mid 
day  stillness,  solemn  almost  as  the  midnight,  I  heard  a 
light  step  in  the  grass,  and  behold  the  dog  Rover  ap 
proaching  cautiously,  with  an  immense  bone  in  his 
mouth,  giving  him  a  very  fierce  appearance  ;  only  that 
his  eyes,  as  he  stopped  to  look  at  me,  were  mild  and 
beneficent.  After  giving  me  this  high,  abstract  look,  he 
walked  very  slowly  down  the  gravel-path,  his  tail  curled 
extremely  tight  on  his  back,  and  his  whole  movement 
solemn  and  important.  At  the  bottom  of  the  yard  he 
stops,  now,  and  looks  about  cautiously,  makes  a  right 
angle  to  the  foot  of  the  pine-tree,  puts  down  his  bone, 
and  looks  about  again.  What  will  he  do  next  ?  He 
considers  a  moment,  and  now  he  decides.  Let  us  work, 
he  says,  while  the  day  lasts.  He  is  digging  a  hole,  and 
his  fore-paws  play  in  and  out,  swifter  than  a  weaver's 
shuttle.  And  now  he  drops  the  bone  in  the  hole, 
covers  it  carefully,  but  quickly,  and  walks  up  again,  in 
the  same  grand  manner,  his  tail,  if  any  thing,  a  little 
higher  and  tighter  than  before.  He  walks  up  to  me 
and  laughs,  in  the  broadest  sense  of  the  word.  Not  a 
horse-laugh,  but  a  dog-laugh. 


104  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

Pompey,  where  are  you  ?  I  call  Pompey,  and  we, 
also,  take  a  little  walk.  I  take  Pompey  to  that  hole 
under  the  pine-tree,  and  make  suggestions.  No  ?  Ab 
solutely,  sir,  the  dog  says  he  smells  nothing  there — 
nothing  at  all.  Rover  stands  a  little  way  off,  profoundly 
indifferent.  I  put  him  at  the  scent.  "  What  is  it  ?"  he 
says,  looking  up  the  north  road,  very  furious — "  shoAV 
me  the  enemy  !"  and  he  sneezes  three  times,  and  looks 
up — down — any  where  rather  than  at  that  deposit — 
that  placer — richer  to  him  than  Golconda — which  the 
rascal  has  just  now  made. 

Ah,  what  a  world  it  is,  sir  !  I  am  outwitted  by  two 
silly  dogs.  Henceforth  I  will  stay  in  my  hammock,  and 
inquire,  "  What  is  truth  ? " 

How  innocent  they  look.  Babes  in  the  wood  not 
more  so.  Unless  some  bumble-bee  happens  along,  they 
will  be  asleep  directly.  Just  now,  before  they  left  the 
pine,  I  observed  they  stopped  to  dogmatize  upon  some 
subject,  and  were  apparently  in  high  glee.  They  had 
compared  notes ! 

Good  morning,  I  will  now  take  nap  number  one. 

Z.  P. 


XVIII. 


Tumbling  Be  ach,  Tac  Hatterac,  ) 
August,  1850.  ) 

You  see  by  my  date,  sir,  that  we  are  out  in  the  great 
world.  Our  friends  who  were  with  us,  when  I  last 
wrote,  left  us  after  one  or  two  pleasant  weeks,  and  we 
began  to  be  slightly  dull.  My  wife,  also,  had  some 
ambition  about  getting  abroad  a  little,  and,  to-day,  a 
week,  we  were  among  the  arrivals  at  —  •  -  House, 
Tumbling  Beach,  Tac  Hatterac. 

It  is  not  wise,  Professor  (as  one  of  the  five  hundred 
here  gathered)  ;  it  is  not  wise,  or  well,  to  bark  at  the 
proceedings  ;  but  a  modest  man  may  state  a  preference  : 
and  mine  would  be  for  a  lamb  chop,  a  corn  pudding, 
and  one  large  potato,  at,  say,  Pundison  House,  Up- 
Country.  For  five  hundred  people  can  hardly  be  dined 
as  well  as  one  or  two,  or  a  half-dozen  ;  eh  ?  but  —  one 
can  stay  away. 


106  Up-CouNTiiv    LETTERS. 

The  joy  here  is  the  sea;  and  that  is  a  heart-full. 
But  I  love  it  more  on  the  southern  shores.  North  of 
Savannah  it  is  too  cold  for  northern  invalids :  too  cold 
for  me,  now  that  I  have  turned  the  point  of  good  health, 
and  am  descending  among  uncertainties.  The  air,  too, 
is  an  anodyne.  I  sleep  continually,  and  no  dogs  to  keep 
me  company.  Waking,  I  hear  only  this  solemn 
pulse  beating  fainter  or  louder :  and  dreaming,  I  weave 
it  into  strange  and  manifold  harmonies.  I  shall  go 
mad,  or  something  like  it,  if  we  stay  here.  It  will  not 
do.  T.  is  with  me,  and  she  is  all  the  world  to  me — 
Pundison  House  excepted.  If  I  should  get  crazed  here, 
and  jump  into  the  breakers,  what  would  the  child  do  ? 
No :  we  must  go  home ;  but  we  will  do  it  at  leisure. 
Frank  is  hurrying  us ;  but  hurry  and  I  have  parted. 
Did  I  say  that  Tidy  is  with  us  ?  She  is  pleasant  and 
happy  as  usual ;  but  has  a  great  liking,  of  late,  to  long 
and  lonely  walks  on  the  beach;  and  dreams,  I  fear, 
more  than  ever.  Only  that  I  cannot  permit  any  thing 
to  fatigue,  she  would  be  a  puzzle  to  me.  The  excite 
ments,  my  dear  Professor,  that  pass  me  by,  from  this 
absolute  necessity  of  repose,  are  many  and  various.  It  is 
so  pleasant,  in  case  of  annoyance  and  wrong,  to  say  to 
myself — "  My  friend,  you  are  not  well  enough,  as  yet,  to 
be  indignant."  So,  also,  as  to  speculation  and  inquiry : — 


THE  SEA-SIDE.  107 

while  T.  is  just  now  beginning  to  remark  upon  this  and 
that,  I  am  calm  and  composed ;  my  remarks  to  the  same 
effect,  having  been  made  weeks  ago,  and  no  urgency  can 
induce  me  to  reconsider.  Let  the  child  dream,  say  I : 
what  has  that  to  do  at  the  sea-shore,  which  was  a  medi 
tation  of  almost  a  month  ago,  at  Pundison  House  ? 

When  is  your  furlough  ?  Those  two  weeks,  I  mean, 
of  up-country  shootings,  wild  as  your  own  comets,  for  so 
only  can  you  by  any  economy  of  calculation  see  the 
half  of  your  friends,  and  then  only  at  a  glance.  Where 
shall  we  meet  ?  Write  me  when  you  leave  the  great 
city,  and  -I  will  contrive  a  collision,  if  possible. 

Frank,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  is  poorly ;  he  started  to 
come  down  to  us,  but  only  reached  New  York,  where 
he  is  way-laid  with  his  ailings,  and  is  only  caring,  now, 
to  get  back  again  to  the  north.  He  writes  cheerfully,  as 
usual.  I  send  you  his  letter  of  a  day  or  two  since. 


Mansion  House,  Sunday  afternoon. 

DEAR  ZACH: 

The  beautiful  Sunday  is  almost  gone, — so  swiftly  go 
the  bright  and  happy  things,  and  now  I  turn  longing 
eyes,  seaward  and  up-country,  to  the  friends  who  are  on 
either  side,  but  not  here  to  cheer  this  maimed  and  grum- 


108  UP-COUNTRY  LETTERS. 

bling  life.  It  is  five  of  the  clock,  "but  still  sunny  and 
pleasant.  I  am  just  up  from  a  sleep  of  two  blessed 
hours,  taken  from  the  rich  heart  of  this  golden  day. 
How  must  the  little  devils,  if  such  there  are  (and  doubt 
less  there  are  youngsters  in  iniquity),  how  must  they 
have  been  astonished  that,  doing  their  worst,  they  could 
not  prevent  that  composing  draught, — that  sweet  obliv 
ion  of  two  mortal  hours.  If  any  doctor  had  said  to  me, 
"  sleep  from  three  to  five,"  I  could  not  have  done  it  more 
to  the  letter  of  the  prescription.  I  had  a  little  fire  in  the 
grate,  for  the  morning  was  cool,  and  having  dined  at  two 
o'clock  (as  all  do  to-day),  I  wheeled  up  the  sofa,  got 
into  my  slippers,  and,  as  aforesaid,  made  the  little  devils 
gape  with  astonishment. 

I  went  down  this  morning  to  St.  Paul's  Church,  and 
being  in  my  old  coat  and  hat,  the  sexton  gave  me  a  seat 
far  down  the  aisle — with  a  rum-breather.  Miserable- 
looking  was  he,  thin  and  pale,  and  almost  paralytic  :  but 
he  had  with  him  a  dogs-eared  "  delightful  prayer  book," 
which  he  constantly  studied  and  pored  over,  readino- 
with  a  kind  of  solemn  gladness,  that  was  almost  ludi 
crous  :  He  rose  and  sat  down,  half  the  time,  all  wrong, 
but  with  entire  unconsciousness  of  so  doing.  In  fact  he 
had  a  certain  grand  manner,  occasionally,  that  expressed 
something  like  this — "  Undoubtedly  : — now  let  us  praise 


THE  RUM -BREATHER.  109 

the  Lord !"  and  upon  this  he  would  rise  with  great  dig 
nity.  I  have  spoken  of  his  foul  breath,  but  now  I  began 
to  sympathize  with  this  strange  man,  and  concluded  to 
stay  through  the  service :  but  then,  I  said  to  myself,  I 
would  certainly  go — and  being  so  far  down  the  aisle,  I 
could  easily  slip  out  by  one  of  the  west  doors  :  but  the 
service  went  on,  and  all  the  while  the  man  seemed  so 
unconscious  of  annoyance  to  any  body,  I  could  scarcely 
reconcile  my  mind  to  what  would  seem  so  like  an  un 
christian  act.  He  looked  about  forty  years  old,  and  was 
already  bald  almost  down  to  his  ears,  where  was  a  little 
stubble  which  he  kept  trained  to  grow  up  instead  of 
down :  his  face  was  cadaverous  as  death  itself,  and  all 
the  time  he  was  sitting,  he  kept  twisting  his  skeleton 
legs  around  each  other  like  wires,  and  was  bending  and 
fumbling  over  that  old  torn  prayer-book.  Occasionally, 
he  turned  his  wretched  face  about  upon  the  audi 
ence  ;  and  once,  as  I  had  not  taken  my  book,  he  offered 
to  divide  his  with  me,  which,  however,  I  declined.  Now 
and  then,  as  perhaps  after  gazing,  in  a  sort  of  puzzle  at 
his  withered  hands,  he  would  brace  up,  and  seem  to  be 
saying  to  himself — "  We  are  thin  and  poor — but  we  do 
hold  out  amazingly,  a-mazingly  : — we  may  outlive  these 
young  people  after  all :  the  Lord  be  praised  !  Amen !" 
Finally,  the  service  was  over,  and  we  stepped  out 


110  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

into  the  aisle,  when,  to  my  worldless  horror,  he  put  on 
his  hat  in  the  middle  of  the  church  !  My  wrath  (for  if  it 
was  not  wrath  which  I  then  felt,  what  was  it  ?)  my 
wrath,  I  say,  was  immense,  and  I  could  hardly  keep 
from  taking  his  hat  off  forcibly  with  my  own  hands. 
After  all  I  had  imagined  about  him — after  all  I  had  put 
up  with,  from  him — so  kindly  as  I  had  felt  for  him — for 
him  to  put  his  hat  on — and  a  shocking  bad  hat,  too — 
all  square  and  fair  in  the  open  church !  I  choked  it  all 
down,  however,  saying  to  myself,  "  lie  don't  know  any 
better,  perhaps, — let  him  live — let  the  poor  fellow  live !" 
and  so,  instead  of  taking  his  hat,  per  force,  I  went  on 
with  him,  side  by  side ;  the  crowd,  I  thought,  staring 
about  as  much  at  me,  in  my  old  coat,  as  at  him,  and  so 
at  last,  we  passed  out  into  the  bright  sunshine :  I,  to 
come  up  to  my  pleasant  rooms,  and  among  cheerful 
faces,  and  he,  perhaps,  to  go  to  his  miserable  home, — 
who  knows  ? — and  to  his  miserable  grog.  But  the  last 
I  saw  of  him,  he  had  his  little  prayer-book  fast  with 
him : — it  was  still  clean  enough  for  him :  I  looked  upon 
his  wretched  face,  and  over  and  over  again,  as  I  mixed 
in  the  gay  throng  which  now  crowded  the  streets,  I 
thought — I  may  need  his  prayers  more  than  he  may 
need  mine  :  God  only  knows.  And  so,  again  and  again, 
in  the  waving  crowd  of  elegance  and  dress,  that  simple 


THE    RUM-BREATHER.  Ill 

and  all-embracing  petition  was  on  my  lips  and  at  my 
heart ;  still  pressing  and  pressing,  and  again  pressing, 
its  sweet  repetition : 

%at}  ©oil  tjane  ntertij  upon  us! 

Yours,  FRANK  BRYARS. 


I  inclose  one  other  letter  which  came  to-day. 

Mansion  Honse,  Wednesday. 

DEAR  ZACH.  : 

IT'S  a  rainy  morning,  and  rather  cold  and  dark,  but 
I  say  to  myself, — it's  Wednesday,  and  the  week  can't  last 
always,  and  to-morrow  Fanny  is  coming  down,  and  then 
I  shall  get  me  up,  how  joyfully,  to  my  rest  in  the  hills 
of  the  up-country.  For  some  days,  I  have  been  as  clear 
as  a  mountain  spring, — but  this  morning,  by  the  help 
of  an  anodyne  for  last  night's  rest,  I  am  muddy  and 
disagreeable. 

I  got  your  letter  yesterday,  indicating  its  arrival  by 
a  star  on  the  corner  of  the  one  I  sent  you.  Ah,  my 
friend,  when  will  you  be  done  with  the  small  vanity  of 
that  Avatering-place  ?  Come  up,  oh  Zachariah  P.,  be 
fore  I  cast  you  off  as  a  worldling,  and  a  vagabone  :  come 
back  to  the  hills — to  your  easy  nap  after  dinner,  and 


112  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

the  sweet  breath  of  the  morning.  As  for  me,  I  am  weary 
of  this  great  city.  If,  in  some  happy  moment,  I  wander 
down  the  street,  singing  some  little  stave,  or  whistling  a 
small  matter  to  myself,  one  cannot  help  seeing  that 
people  stare,  as  though  I  was  doing  some  wicked  thing  ; 
this  it  is,  or  my  old  coat,  and  which,  I  find  it  difficult  to 
determine.  Oh,  let  me  go  home :  much  do  I  want  to 
see  your  father  again,  and  to  sit  once  more  under  the 
old  maples  and  pines  :  unless  you  come  home,  sir,  I  may 
go  over  to  Pundison  House,  and  take  possession :  that 
puppy,  too,  I  must  see — I  want  to  hear  his  bark — he's 
beginning  early — but  so  it  is  in  this  damp  and  miserable 
world,  where  the  "  original  sin  "  breaks  out,  even  in  pup 
pies  :  there  is  no  escape,  you  see,  from  the  general  law. 
An  important  query  might  be  started,  in  regard  to  dogs, 
"  whether  the  sins  of  the  fathers  descend  unto  the  third . 
and  fourth  generations :"  I  have  seen  dogs,  which  have 
given  me  strong  suspicions,  that  they  were  suffering  from 
the  above  law :  as  to  Rover  and  Pompey,  it  is  plain  that 
their  progenitors  were  of  the  highest  respectability,  and 

no  doubt  of  gentle  blood. Your  father's  rhyme,  T. 

prefer,  as  first  composed : 

"The  little  dog  came  over: 
Kate  chain'd  him  fast  to  Rover: 
They  feel  as  fine  as  calves  in  clover. " 


THE   BIRTH-DAY.  113 

In  this  way  the  lines  harmonize,  and  the  sentiment 
is  brought  out  in  a  gradually  increasing  climax,  which 
is  very  effective.  But,  •when  you  say  "  bouncing  over,'' 
and  "  poor  Rover,"  the  harmony  of  the  parts  is  disturbed, 
and  the  accent  brought  in  the  wrong  place.  I  may  be 
wrong,  but  would  respectfully  submit  the  matter  to  your 
lather's  more  mature  consideration.  In  either  case,  I 
suppose,  the  facts  will  remain  the  same.  This  is  import 
ant.  Is  Tidy  to  stay  with  you  ?  If  she  thinks  of  going 
home  soon,  I  would  try  to  come  down  for  her.  Say  to 
her  that  I  saw  an  old  friend  of  hers  a  day  or  two  since, 
who  asked  a  thousand  questions  about  her.  Don't  for 
get  this.  Good-bye.  F.  B. 

P.  S. — It  is  Thursday  night,  and  I  am  entering — or 
rather  am  already  entered — upon  my  twenty-fifth  year  ! 
Am  I  sorry  about  it  ?  Oh,  no !  a  thousand  times  no  ! 
Let  the  dead  bury  the  dead :  but  let  us  go  on  !  If  to 
grow  older,  is  to  grow  wiser  and  better  (and  without 
this  hope,  life  is  a  misnomer),  then  let  me  grow  old 
rapidly.  Let  them  come  on !  let  them  come  on,  the 
days  that  are  left  to  me  ;  and  the  swifter  the  better. 

People  talk  of  growing  old,  as  though  at  the  death 
of  this  body,  we  should  not  continue  to  grow  on,  as  be 
fore.  Ah,  sir,  let  me  say  it  with  reverence,  but  I  ask 
you,  Is  not  the  Almighty  the  Ancient  of  Days  ? 


114  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

But  at  twenty-four  (almost  half  the  old  allotted 
period)  it  is  time,  high  time,  my  old  friend,  to  be  ready 
for  the  long  journey.  Time  for  us  to  do  something 
more,  than  to  loiter  about  the  world,  eating,  and  drink 
ing,  and  sleeping,  and  being,  in  some  weak  fashion, 
respectably  decent,  and  passably  amiable,  and  not  out 
rageously  vile.  For,  wherever  we  go,  into  whatever 
place  of  abode,  when  we  leave  these  ashes  and  take  on 
that  higher  life,  shall  we  not  carry  Avith  us  this  winged 
and  fiery  spirit,  which,  if  we  curb  it  not  now,  and 
chasten  it  not  now,  and  master  it  not  now,  will  then 
master  us  ?  Adieu.  FRANK  BRYARS. 


arfe  gags. 


Puudison  Home,  Up-Country, 
Nov.  1850. 


On  !  my  friend,  what  a  lapse  is  here  !  Looking  back  to 
your  last  letter,  I  find  the  warm  date  of  July,  and  I  re 
member  me,  also,  in  that  already  dim  and  far-away  time, 
of  various  talks  of  naps  on  the  piazza,  thunder-storms 
and  such  like  tropical  matters  :  and  now,  it  is  this  sol 
emn  and  cold  time  of  the  year,  which  we  call  November. 
Out-doors,  as  it  happens  this  morning, — and  will  often 
happen,  no  doubt,  till  winter  comes, — are  the  gray  wet 
sky,  and  the  slippery  walking,  and  the  rawness  of  east 
erly  winds  :  within  doors,  we  make  up  such  a  contrast 
as  you  find  in  a  grate  well  filled  with  large  blocks  of 
wood,  and  a  modicum  of  coal ;  making  a  very  grand  sub 
stitute  for  a  Christmas  fire.  My  wife  has  already  got  up 
her  curtains,  huge  as  they  are,  and  ponderous  to  a 
weighty  degree,  as  I  think,  for  a  plain  up-country  house. 


118  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

In  these  dark  days,  I  threaten  occasionally  to  cut  them 
down  ;  and  we  have  only  compromised  at  last,  by  hav 
ing  them  well  fastened  back,  so  as  to  get  a  kind  of 
bright  twilight  that  is  endurable.  Mrs.  P.,  at  this  mo 
ment,  sits  close  by,  looking  intently  and  motionless  upon 
a  pile  of  stuffs  that  are  spread  out  before  her.  A  mo 
ment  since  she  was  measuring  it,  by  holding  one  end  at 
the  tip  of  her  nose,  and  stretching  out  the  stuff  to  the 
length  of  her  left  arm.  This  proceeding  looks  very  wise 
— few  things  look  more  so, — but  the  odds  are,  from  that 
lady's  present  appearance,  that  she  is  in  a  snarl  of  some 
kind.  That  is  my  opinion :  but  I  never  say  any  thing 
upon  such  occasions,  as  I  should  probably  fail  of  getting 
any  reply,  at  least  before  tea.  I  should  not  wonder,  if 
there  were  more  curtains  in  the  case,  to  darken  some 
other  pleasant  room.  "We  shall  see. 

Talking  of  tea,  our  little  round  table  is  lonely  of  late. 
Tidy,  who  was  with  us  last  summer,  was  tempted  off  to 
the  house  of  a  friend  at  the  sea-side,  and  has  not  yet 
returned :  we  look  for  her  soon,  and  then  we  shall  be 
gin  to  think  of  Thanksgiving  and  Christmas.  So  we 
go :  only  the  other  day  it  was  summer,  and  now  we  talk 
of  our  Thanksgiving,  and  what  we  shall  send  to  the 
Rector.  And  what  have  we  done,  all  this  time,  other 
than  to  go  through  the  same  round  of  eating  and  sleep- 


THE   DARK  DAYS.  119 

ing,  with  now  and  then  an  extraordinary  dream?  are 
we  wiser,  better,  stouter  ?  I  wish  I  could  claim  the  last, 
at  least ;  but  here  I  am,  as  usual,  with  my  old  growls 
and  weaknesses,  and  sometimes  with  a  doubt,  as  to  what 
the  winter  will  do  with  me.  But  I  rather  incline  to  put 
a  good  face  upon  matters.  The  dogs, — let  me  say, — 
never  Avere  better ;  or  their  performances  more  strikingly 
brilliant.  It  is  amusing  to  see  them  sitting,  side  by  side, 
in  the  sunshine,  on  still  cold  mornings,  disdaining,  as  it 
were,  any  shelter,  and  perhaps  acclimating  by  a  kind  of 
instinctive  forethought  against  the  intense  cold  which 
will  be  coming  by  and  by.  I  will  take  a  lesson  from 
them,  and  as  C.  says,  "  cirkelate,  cirkelate."  How  is  the 
quicksilver  with  you  ?  we  count  down  to  34°. 

Yours,  Z.  P. 

P.  S. — I  have  left  this  sheet  unfinished,  for  a  day  or 
two,  and  now — behold  a  morning,  clear  and  sparkling 
as  a  mountain  spring.  It  is  so  utterly  still,  that  the 
hammers  over  the  river  ring  out  far  and  wide ;  while 
the  great  Shag-Bark  grumbles  and  growls  like  forty-five 
bears  all  tied  by  the  tail.  Every  one  speaks  low  and 
dveamingly.  Tib,  who  used  to  stand  all  last  summer,  in 
the  farther  corner  of  the  pasture,  in  the  shade  of  the 
hickories,  now  parades  herself  in  the  very  middle  of 
the  meadow,  and  looks  the  sun  straight  in  the  face: 


120  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

looks  and  chews.     I  can  distinctly  see  the  motion  of  her 
chops  at  this  distance,  and  the  smoke  of  her  breath. 

But  I  have  not  told  you,  that  with  the  new  weather, 
came  Tidy  from  the  low  country.  Even  so :  we  have 
given  her  the  south-room,  up-stairs ;  which  looks  miles 
away,  over  the  river  and  rapids,  and  by  one  window  in 
the  east,  you  can  look  over  the  well-pole,  down  through 
the  pine  grove  to  the  very  region  of  the  rising  sun. 
Very  pleasant  it  is  of  a  lazy  morning  to  see  the  sun, 
blazing  in  over  the  pine  trees  of  the  grove,  or  through 
the  bare  branches  of  the  maples  on  the  south :  pleasant, 
I  say,  so  to  lie  and  hesitate,  between  the  pleasure  of  the 
half-dream,  which  you  know  is  a  dream  only,  and  the 
undoubted  reality  of  buckwheat  cakes  and  hot  souchong, 
getting  ready  below.  Tidy,  who  is  always  dreaming, 
will,  of  course,  have  golden  dreams  there.  "With  a  clean 
wood  fire,  and  an  open  hearth,  and  that  immense  chair, 
which  is  large  enough  for  at  least  three  such  little  bo 
dies  as  hers,  she  will  like  that  room,  I  fancy,  almost  as 
much  as  the  seat  under  the  maples  in  the  warm  sum 
mer-time.  Sometimes  we  shall  look  in  upon  her ;  but 
more  often  she  will  come  down,  and  help  take  from  the 
gravity  of  these  grand  and  ponderous  curtains.  I  have 
put  a  stove  in  the  hall,  which  sends  up  a  constant  cloud 
of  vapor  from  the  top,  making  the  travel  between  the 


THE    DARK   DAYS.  121 

rooms  perfectly  summer-like :  not  hot,  observe,  but  charm 
ingly  warm. 

Good  morning.  My  wife, — I  will  remark, — has  come 
out  of  her  entanglement,  and  is  perfectly  self-possessed 
and  calm  :  or  rather,  she  is  more  than  that ;  she  is  exu 
berant.  Whatever  difficulty  it  was,  it  is  plain  that  it 
has  disappeared ;  and  she  goes  about  the  house,  like  a 
ship  Avith  top-gallants  and  studding-sails  all  out  to  the 
breeze.  Addio,  Z.  P. 


II. 

f  mtton 


Up-Country,  November. 

IN  tliese  sliort  clays  the  dark  comes  early.  By  five 
o'clock,  usually,  we  are  housed  ;  all  out-door  chores  are 
carefully  clone  ;  and  then,  when  we  have  gathered  about 
the  round-table,  us  four  making-  the  circle  complete,  and 
the  lamp  (that  beauty  of  a  golden-stemmed  lamp)  in  the 
centre,  giving  a  kind  of  unity  to  the  whole  proceeding, 
—  like  a  poem  perfect  in  all  its  parts,  —  I  say  at  this 
time,  there  is  a  certain  keeping  in  Madame's  curtains,  to 
which  I  give  a  large  and  generous  admission.  I  by  no 
means  deny  this  certain  propriety,  and  the  less  so  as 
they  help  to  set  off  a  picture  over  the  mantel,  which  is 
to  me  a  daily  refreshment.  It  is  a  Claude  :  an  arm  of 
the  sea,  leading  out  into  a  warm  sunset,  where,  strug 
gling  in  the  haze  and  golden  glory  of  that  distance,  are 
faint  indications  —  shadows  as  it  were—  of  ships  outward 


PUNDISON     HOUSE     IN    NOVEMBER.      123 

bound.  It  is  the  play  of  the  wind  and  the  sunlight  on 
the  sea  that  pleases  me.  My  friend,  the  celebrated 

,  says  it's  a  detestable  copy  ;  but,  to  me,  it's  as 

sweet  as  a  summer  morning. 

There  is  one  other  picture  which  I  study,  as  I  per 
ambulate  the  room  of  sunny  afternoons,  between  naps — 
a  small  affair — indicating  a  cottage  (pretty  good,  I 
fancy),  and  a  lake  in  the  hills,  with  a  figure,  one  and 
solitary,  on  its  banks.  Whether  that  figure  be  meant 
to  indicate  a  man,  or  a  woman,  or  a  large  boy,  nobody 
can  determine  ;  people  puzzle  over  it,  but  to  no  effect. 

They  say  it  is  a  poor  painting ;  a  pleasant  fact  to 
rne.  If  it  were  better  I  could  make  no  improvement  of 
my  own.  I  do  not  like  things  which  are  beyond  criti 
cism  :  but  after  criticising,  it  is  pleasant  to  overpower 
every  thing  with  a  magnificent  show  of  the  good  inten 
tion  manifested,  and  the  good  things  done,  notwithstand 
ing.  Perfections,  in  the  next  life,  it  is  possible,  we  may 
like :  but  not  here.  A  perfection,  sir,  is  an  impertinence. 

But  all  this  time  a  sad  event  has  been  fluttering 
about  the  paper,  and  trying  to  get  itself  written 
down,  and  I  may  as  well  tell  you  at  once.  Re 
member,  however,  our  comfortable  rooms,  and  the 
magnificent  curtains,  and  the  paintings ;  come  back 
to  them — will  you  ? — when  I  have  told  you  that 


124  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

rny  friend  Frank,  is  gone !  Gone,  sir,  to  the  other 
world  !  Not  that  other  world  which  is  beyond  the 
grave ;  but  that  old  world  which  is  over  seas.  Gone, 
sir,  straight  for  Ould  England.  His  sister  is  with  him, 
of  course.  I  confess  to  an  indescribable  shock,  when  we 
first  discovered  their  intentions ;  and  I  cannot  help 
thinking  that  Frank  has  done  it  partly  from  some  faint 
grudge  at  our  summer  performances ;  for  he  was  not 
well  enough  to  go  with  us,  even  in  the  short  airings 
which  Mrs.  P.  and  myself  took,  here  and  there. 

As  I  said,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  Frank  took 
the  opportunity  of  being  poorly,  to  go  off  to  England. 
A  miserable  excuse  is  poor  health,  to  go  chasseeing 
about  the  Atlantic,  and  looking  for  better  digestion  in 
that  cloudy  England.  I  told  him  so,  but  he  only  smiled 
and  made  no  reply  ;  and  now  I  think  of  it,  and  remem 
ber  that  sad  look,  I  almost  doubt  if  he  had  any  such 
feeling  as  I  have  intimated.  I  think  it  was  Mrs.  P.  and 
Tidy  who  suggested  it.  You  are  not  aware,  perhaps, 
that  things  even  trifling  as  summer  trips,  have  a  certain 
solemn  greatness  to  women,  which  we  know  nothing  of. 

Well,  he  is  gone ;  and  we  are  left  to  winter  alone. 
My  father's  last  words  to  him  were,  "  Write  plain ;" 
for,  of  course,  we  expect  to  get  news  from  him  often. 
If  you  like,  I  will  pick  you  out  when  they  arrive,  such 


PUNDISON     HOUSE     IN     NOVEMBER.        125 

bits  of  news  as  may  interest  you,  and  send  them  down. 
They  will  help  you  get  through  the  long  evenings. 

"What  with  looking  for  his  letters,  and  shooting  at 
him  as  he  runs  about,  here  and  there,  I  am  consoling 
myself  that  it  will  do  almost  as  well  as  his  actual  pre 
sence.  The  old  house  is  now  pretty  much  alone :  one 
servant  only — old  Tim — stays  about  to  take  care  of  the 
poultry  and  such  matters ;  and,  once  in  a  while,  we  all 
go  up,  and  help  shake  out  the  beds,  and  fire  pistols 
in  the  dark  rooms,  to  scare  away  all  possible  mice  and 
vagrants. 

Some  days,  when  I  know  nothing  better  to  do,  I  go 
up,  and  surround  myself  with  books  and  papers,  before 
a  huge  fire  in  the  parlor ;  and  order  old  Tim  up  and 
down  the  house  upon  nameless  errands,  with  a  view  of 
preventing  his  getting  too  rusty.  There,  sometimes,  I 
also  escape  on  those  indescribable  days  when  things  do 
not  harmonize  well  at  home.  But,  whatever  the  confu 
sion  at  home — and  it  is  mostly  pick-up-dinner  days,  and 
Mondays,  to  which  I  allude — when  in  spite  of  the  dis 
tance  of  the  operations,  and  the  absolute  stillness,  as 
great  as  of  any  other  day,  there  is  a  certain  elate  look 
and  feeling  in  every  body,  which  are  only  proper  to  mat 
ters  of  enterprise  and  effort ;  and  these  fatigue : — I  say, 
in  spite  of  this,  my  coming  home  is  always  coming  to 


120  UP-COUNTRY  LETTERS. 

such  a  welcome,  that  I  vow,  always,  never  to  vagrantizo 
from  that  day  forth  again.  It  is  at  home  only  that  I 
am  myself.  Under  the  mild  glory  of  that  immortal 
Claude,  all  thoughts  are  mellowed  into  proportions,  and 
right  postures  :  or,  if  that  fail,  I  look  at  the  cottage  and 
the  mysterious  personage  in  that  other  gem  of  which  I 
have  spoken,  and  straightway  am  at  large  in  the  land 
of  dreams,  and  all  delightful  uncertainties. 

Good-bye,  my  friend  :  it  is  Saturday  night,  and  the 
day  of  rest — God's  blessing  be  on  it  for  ever — is  close 
upon  us.  Good  night.  Z.  P. 


III. 


November,  1850. 

I  CONFESS  the  weakness,  sir,  which  you  suggest.  I  am 
partial  to  those  dogs.  Their  heroism,  their  readiness  for 
events,  their  social  and  conversational  qualities,  their  hap 
py  and  hearty  way  of  laughing,  and  I  may  add,  their 
high  consciousness  of  the  dignity  of  Pundisoii  House, 
and  all  things  belonging  to  Pundison  House,  —  these,  sir, 
are  bands  of  steel.  I  am  partial,  and  I  —  intend  to  be. 
When  they  can  find  better  masters,  let  them  look  up  and 
dq^n  the  world,  and  choose. 

Last  night,  sir,  some  villainous  apology  of  a  man  un 
dertook  forcible  entrance  to  our  house  through  one  of  the 
north  cellar  windows.  The  dogs  reported  the  outrage  with 
a  furious  bedlam  of  exclamations  ;  and  Kate,  who  sleeps 
in  a  piazza-room  on  the  first  "floor,  immediately  aroused 
my  father,  who  loosed  them,  —  all  wild  as  they  were,  — 


128  UP-COUNTRY  LETTERS. 

upon  the  enemy,  and  stood  by  for  the  fight.  But  he 
had  been  wise, — that  burglar,  that  bloody-minded  and 
contemptible  prowler, — he  had  taken  an  early  start. 
Nothing  was  seen  but  two  shirt-sleeves  in  the  distance, 
fading  rapidly  into  the  dark ;  and  a  sort  of  wave  un 
derneath,  as  of  legs,  in  a  swift  and  headlong  motion. 
Doubtless,  the  man  who  carried  those  legs,  rejoiced  ex 
ceedingly,  that  he  was  betimes  on  his  travels. 

The  dogs  have  scarcely  yet  recovered  from  their  min 
gled  excitement  and  chagrin.  They  growl  upon  the 
faintest  occasion  ;  and  I  doubt  if  they  will  get  any  real 
sleep,  now,  for  the  rest  of  the  winter. 

"Life,  my  dear  Pomp," — I  imagine  Rover  thus  ad 
dressing  him — "  Life  is  serious  and  earnest.  The  world, 
my  brother,  is  a  world  of  trial.  Unceasing  vigilance, — 
nothing  less — unceasing  vigilance  must  be  our  rule. 
Let  us  never  forget,  Pompey,  that  we  are  the  guardians 
of  Pundison  House.  It  is  GUI'S  to  protect, — it  is  ours  to 
warn, — to  be  always  at  call, — to  be  cheerful  and  happy, 
to  never  despond, — and  it  is  ours  my  brother, — I  say  it  is 
ours, — to  die  for  our  masters  !  In  short, — but  hush ! 

What's  that  ? Yow-yow  !  yow  !  yow-yow  !  Ow ! 

— ow  !  ow !  ow ! — ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow — OW !" 

One  morning,  last  summer,  during  our  absence,  my 
father  left  home  for  a  considerable  journey  at  the  early 


BURGLARS — KATE   AND   BOB.          129 

hour  of  5  o'clock,  A.  M.  The  dogs  followed  him  for  a 
while,  yelping  in  the  maddest  way,  and  were  only  at 
last  beaten  back  by  brute  force.  How  they  employed 
themselves  immediately  thereafter  is  not  known.  Pom- 
pey  arrived  at  Pundison  House  in  about  four  hours, 
looking  very  wild  and  forlorn,  and  refused  point  blank, 
to  enter  the  house  except  by  the  front  door,  where  he 
proceeded  to  examine  carefully  all  the  rooms  on  that 
floor.  Eover  appears  to  have  taken  further  argument. 
He  arrived  fifteen  hours  behind  time.  His  mind  now 
being  fully  made  up,  he  at  once  laid  himself  down  on 
the  kitchen  floor,  as  though  dead ;  refusing  to  eat,  or  to 
express  himself  in  any  manner  whatever.  To  him,  the 
world  had  become  one  vast  blank  of  horror  and  dark 
ness.  Of  course,  sir,  dogs  like  these,  are  beyond  price. 
I  cannot  pass  by  Kate,  without  saying  that  she  is 
the  nearest  approximation  to  a  faultless  servant,  that  we 
have  ever  had.  She  is  small,  but  strong  and  compact, 
and  the  very  picture  of  gentleness  and  decision.  She  is 
Irish,  but  her  talk  is  like  the  tone  of  the  Spanish,  and 
the  words  she  uses  are  all  of  thepimbiest  kind.  Having  a 
low  voice,  she  utters  them  with  a  modest  richness  of 
manner,  which  gives  them  great  effect.  I  consider  that , 
little  piazza-room  as  eminently  proper  for  Kate.  She 

sleeps  with  her  feet  straight  out  against  the  window, 
6* 


130  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

which  is  only  breast  high  from  the  ground,  and  opens 
upon  the  whole  southern  hemisphere.  Although  not 
more  than  twenty,  my  wife  says  she  is  intensely  old- 
maidish  in  her  ways;  and  if  so,  perhaps  it  is  because  she 
thinks  so  much  of  her  father, — who  has  gone  to  heaven, 
she  says, — and  the  angels  which  she  sees  in  the  moon 
light  nights. 

Perhaps  you  will  think,  sir,  that  all  incidents  that 
ever  happen,  and  all  people  who  ever  gather,  in  this  our 
house,  must  be  in  some  way  remarkable :  and,  doubt 
less,  it  is  so.  We  are  a  remarkable  people,  and  we  do 
remarkable  things :  or  rather,  we  do  usual  and  common 
things,  in  a  remarkable  way.  I  did  think  there  was  an 
exception  in  Bob  ;  but  I  was  wrong,  for  Bob  is  remark 
ably  fat.  Figuratively,  Bob  is  to  Kate,  as  three  is  to 
four  :  Bob  being  about  three  feet  high,  and  Kate  four, 
or  four  and  a  half.  But  here  we  stop ;  for  whereas  Kate, 
though  well  rounded,  is  trim  and  steady,  and  moves  like 
a  pilot-boat,  Bob, — is  heavy ;  and  goes  with  a  step. 
Bob's  face  is  large  and  round,  and  all  open  to  the  world : 
so  is  his  belly.  You  think  he  is  superfluously  thick ; 
until  you  discover  his  extraordinary  ability  and  tough 
ness  ;  and  his  kindness  is  what  you  would  expect  from  a 
brother  of  Kate.  It  is, — I  may  say, — without  bottom. 
Kate,  I  consider  a  good  Catholic ;  but  Mrs.  P.  insists 


BURGLARS  —  KATE   AND   BOB.         131 

that  she  is  a  Romanist.  Bob  has  probably  never  con 
centrated  his  attention  on  religious  ^matters,  and  quite 
likely — is  all  abroad  as  to  the  thirty-nine  articles ;  but 
in  acting  out  a  wholesome,  hearty  life,  he  is,  perhaps, 
safe  enough  as  he  is.  Oh,  my  Professor,  when  will  you 
draw  about  you  these  pleasant  aids  and  appliances  of 
life :  the  wife,  and  the  sisters,  and  the  servants,  and  the 
little  round  table,  and  the  curtains ;  the  breakfast,  hot 
and  vapory — the  planning  for  the  day,  and  the  bread 
and  cider  at  evening?  "When  will  you  do  this  one  good 
thing,  which  is  still  possible  ?  When  ? 

Yours  Z.  P. 


IV. 

last  jof 


STILL  in  the  undoubted  November  !  A  light  snow  which 
has  fallen  over  night,  lies  thinly  upon  the  ground,  and 
upon  the  arms  of  the  big  cedar,  and  the  two  pines  in 
the  front  yard,  and  now,  after  breakfast,  the  snow  has 
changed  to  a  fine  rain  and  sleet.  Looking  high  and  low 
out  the  south  window,  I  do  not  see  a  single  motion  of 
life  :  all  is  still,  cold,  damp,  and  to  some  extent,  awful  ; 
chiefly,  however,  to  those  who  have  breakfasted  badly, 
or,  —  worse  still  —  who  are  continually  remembering  the 
bad  breakfast  of  yesterday  and  last  week.  For,  by 
taking  rubbers  and  mackintosh,  we  should  find  the  cow, 
—  Tib,  —  chewing  her  cud  under  the  barn-yard  shed,  with 
a  sleepy  satisfaction,  nowise  disturbed  by  two  or  three 
hens  roosting  on  her  back,  or  the  score  of  others  scratch 
ing  about  below.  Among  this  score,  some  have  been 


THE   LAST   OF   NOVEMBER.  133 

out  in  the  weather  and  go  about  with  draggled  tails,  and 
a  look  of  misery  that  is  very  profound.  Others  stand 
on  one  leg,  ingathered  from  all  outward  influences.  But 

O'  O 

appearances  are  deceitful.  It  is  not  impossible,  sir,  that 
each  particular  hen  in  that  company  will  leave  a  smooth 
white  egg  somewhere  in  the  course  of  the  day. 

One  chap,  I  observe,  has  made  his  home  in  the  front 
yard.  Roosters  and  hens,  Professor,  have,  and  ought  to 
have,  nothing  to  do  with  ethics  or  morals.  But  this 
fellow  has  probably  trespassed  somewhat, — has  eaten 
some  kind  of  forbidden  fruit, — has  speculated,  perhaps, 
beyond  what  is  proper.  He  is  constantly  running,  at 
the  slightest  noise,  under  the  rose-bushes,  or  hiding  his 
head  in  some  dark  corner.  Whether  he  is  a  little 
cracked,  as  we  say,  or  has  only  been  turned  out  of 
church,  it  is  difficult  to  say  :  not  unlikely,  he  has  been 
doing  some  dirty  action,  which  has  put  all  hen-dom  in 
indignation.  It  is,  perhaps,  with  some  such  suspicion, 
that  my  wife  who  is  sometimes  fearfully  cruel,  says  to 
me,  "  wring  his  neck,  ZARRY  ;  he's  a  bad  character." 

A  fine  day  for  the  little  white  pig  in  his  warm  box ! 
Having  his  breakfast  and  a  bed  of  straw,  he  is  satisfied. 
He  does  not  ask  for  sunshine :  he  asks  for  corn  and 
boiled  potatoes,  and  he  will  not  refuse  sweet  apples,  if 
you  have  them.  Having  his  fill  of  these,  he  rejoices  in 


134  UP-COUNTEY    LETTERS. 

such  weather.  Go  to  him,  except  at  his  hours  for  eating, 
and  he  will  hardly  look  at  you.  Buried  to  the  very  nose 
in  straw,  if  he  says  a  word,  it  will  be, — "  Don't  bother 
me :  I'm  just  having  a  nice  nap : — rains,  eh  ?  well :  let 
it  rain ;  but  I  say — let  me  know,  when  it's  time  for 
supper." 

Whether  the  butcher  comes  on  such  a  day  is  rather 
important.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  be  thrown  back  upon 
the  remains  of  yesterday.  But,  dinner  secured,  the  house 
well  banked,  the  inn-door  arrangements  all  complete, 
the  wood-pile  well  stored,  and  the  coal-bin  well  filled ; 
(my  wife  would  add  here,  the  dining-room  curtains 
well  hung),  and  no  impertinent  intrusions  possible, 
as  to  next  week's  necessities — in  such  case,  sir,  the 
weather  is  enjoyable.  I  write  under  such  auspices  at 
this  time.  On  these  days,  I  draw  up  to  my  table  by 
the  southwest  window,  which  is  comfortably  near  the 
fire,  and  yet  wholly  aside  from  the  sweep  of  the  gentle 
people,  and  here,  perhaps,  I  read  over  your  last  letter ; 
write  one  or  two  myself,  and  do  up  my  odd  correspond 
ence,  leaving  legitimate  matters  for  other  times.  I  ran 
sack  the  old  secretary,  and  find  marvels  and  ancient 
wonders,  laid  away  in  dark  drawers  :  things,  which  I 
had  forgotten,  but  which  are  still  fresh  and  fragrant  of 
pleasant  days.  Then  we  promenade  somewhat,  begin- 


THE   LAST    OF   NOVEMBER.  135 

ning  at  the  picture  of  the  cottage,  and  bringing  up  at 
the  end  of  the  hall.  One  way  we  have  the  cottage  in 
prospect,  the  whole  distance,  and  a  sweet  little  water 

picture  below  it  by  my  friend  the  celebrated ,  who 

so  abuses  my  Claude.  In  the  other  case,  we  reverse  the 
climax,  by  passing  the  hall  stove,  a  beautiful  cylinder,  in 
high  polish,  on  the  top  of  which  is  a  boiler,  that  holds  a 
bucket  and  a  half  of  water,  from  which  wreaths  of  vapor 
are  constantly  sailing  about,  and  rising  into  the  still 
chambers  overhead,  making  the  air  soft  as  the  tropics. 
Doors  are  always  open  into  all  the  rooms,  where  summer 
reigns  continually.  By  summer,  I  mean  a  temperature 
of  65°  to  70°,  the  exactness  of  which  I  am  able  to  main 
tain,  not  without  some  vigilance.  I  have  six  thermom 
eters  scattered  about,  and  to  keep  them  at  the  same  mark, 
is  a  pleasant  annoyance,  almost  equal  to  my  father's,  in 
keeping  his  w,atch,  and  the  noon-mark,  and  the  old 
kitchen  clock,  all  telling  the  same  time. 

After  a  modest  dinner,  on  a  day  like  this,  (for  mod 
estly  you  must  dine  always,  when  you  dine  at  the 
country  hours,  of  one  or  two  o'clock),  and  three  mouth- 
fuls  of  cigar  smoke,  the  nap  in  the  big  chair  is  perhaps 
the  most  profound  abstract  of  all  possible  comforts  under 
the  sun :  and  it  is  more  profound  and  more  abstract  in 
an  untold  degree,  because  it  rains  such  great  guns  out- 


136  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

doors.  Unless  Bob  wakes  me,  coming  through  to  keep 
up  the  fires,  I  can  do  from  one  to  two  hours  with  entire 
ease.  By  this  time  it  gets  dark  pretty  rapidly,  and  we 
have  to  bustle  about  to  get  the,  necessary  airing  before 
tea  ;  and  so  goes  the  day. 

My  father  manages  his  hours  with  a  difference.  He 
breakfasts  by  candlelight,  and  by  twelve  o'clock  has 
dined,  and  is  deep  in  the  morning  paper.  Contrariwise, 
if  we  get  breakfast  well  over  by  nine  o'clock,  we  feel  ra 
ther  proud  of  it.  Our  naps  are  the  only  things  which 
coincide.  At  say  three  o'clock,  P.  M.,  there  is  an  hour 
or  two  of  a  midsummer  stillness,  all  through  the  house. 
By  this  time  Mrs.  P.  has  disappeared  into  some  house 
hold  privacy,  and  Tidy  is  tip-stairs,  just  keeping  herself 
awake  by  some  little  song,  or  snatch  of  an  opera.  Any 
one,  then,  coming  in  on  tiptoe,  would  find  your  humble 
servant  stretched  out  at  an  angle  of  abouWorty-five  de 
grees,  before  a  comfortable  fire,  clean  gone  in  whatever 
dream  may  be  uppermost  at  the  moment,  and  with  a 
look,  I  fancy,  of  having  dined  satisfactorily.  By  going 
a  step  further  into  that  old-fashioned  room,  with  the 
oven,  and  boiler,  and  the  old  clock,  and  the  queer  old 
pictures  and  engravings  on  the  wall,  and  the  two  dogs 
fast  asleep  on  the  sofa, — this  tiptoe  observer  would  find 
my  father  equally  mute  and  still  in  his  easy-chair  before 


THE   LAST    OF   NOVEMBER.  137 

a  carefully-built  fire ;  his  hat  on,  but  tipped  back  on  the 
top  of  the  chair,  and  his  countenance  almost  rigid  with 
a  certain  severity  of  look,  suggestive  of  old  revolutionary 
times,  and  hard  life  in  the  woods,  years  and  years  long 
gone  by, — on  which  old-fashioned  matters  and  times, 
the  chance  is  that  his  dream  is  now  running. 

When  he  wakes,  after  an  hour  or  so,  he  will  turn  to 
Kate,  who  has  been  going  about  very  softly,  and  ask,  if 
lie  has  been  asleep :  then  looking  at  the  clock  he  per 
ceives  that  an  hour  or  so  has  slipped  away ;  and  the 
time  was,  when  such  a  discovery  Avould  have  made  him 
very  indignant ;  but  now,  few  things  surprise  my  father, 
and  if  the  day  is  heavy,  the  odds  are,  he  will  take  ano 
ther  nap. 

So,  my  friend,  goes  a  clay  in  November. 

Yours,  Z.  P. 


at     ntott  im. 


Up-Cotmtry,  December,  1650. 

MY  father  is  a  man  of  method  :  method  and  system, 
times,  places,  and  proprieties.  The  afternoon  nap-hour 
is  probably  not  on  his  list,  as  he  does  not  consider  that 
to  be  sleep,  but  a  kind  of  solemn  abstraction  :  an  abstrac 
tion  which  arrives,  however,  with  the  inevitableness  of 
three  o'clock,  unless  some  business  intervene  ;  and  busi 
ness  "  has  no  business  "  at  Pundison  House.  It  is  by 
gone.  "  "When  I  was  in  business,"  is  one  of  my  father's 
exordiums  ;  but  it  refers,  always,  to  more  than  forty  years 
ago. 

It  is  at  this  dark  time  of  the  year,  and  in  these  short 
days,  that  my  father  begins  the  day  with  candle-light 
His  breakfast  is  by  this  light 

Xot  that  he  retires  early,  or  has  important  affairs  on 
hand  for  the  day.  He  retires  very  late  ;  and  our  affairs, 
as  aforesaid,  are  of  the  past.  But  it  is  his  way. 


142  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

It  is  absolute  and  without  reference.  It  pleases  him 
so  to  do ;  and  being  done,  if  any  action  is  required,  he 
is  ready.  There  is  something  healthy  and  bracing  in  a 
good  start.  There  can  hardly  be  a  surprise  to  the  day 
that  beo-ins  with  candle-light.  All  events  within  ordi- 

o  <— > 

nary  vision  and  sagacity  will  be  forewitnessed — seen 
coming — and  if  they  are  not  liked,  can  be  switched  off 
the  track.  Years  are  added  to  life  by  early  rising,  not 
because  the  times  of  sleep  are  of  special  importance,  but 
from  this  tonic  of  readiness  for  events.  With  my  father 
there  may  be  some  connection  with  pleasant  reminis 
cences  of  early  life. 

My  own  memory  of  breakfasts  by  candle-light,  is 
shivering  with  the  chilliness  of  cold  rooms :  cold  and 
large  rooms,  with  blazing  fires,  the  edge  of  the  frost  not 
yet  removed,  but  getting  delightfully  warm  just  as  you 
have  to  go  out  into  the  keen  air — to  some  out-door 
work  of  an  hour  or  more,  before  it  will  be  daybreak — 
or  on  a  trip  to  the  mountains  for  a  load  of  firewood,  of 
which  there  must  be  four  loads  in  the  yard  before  sun 
set—or  a  start  on  a  long  three  days'  journey  behind 
heavy  team-horses,  with  a  load  of  wheat  or  iron  for  the 
market.  In  this  memory  is  the  relish  of  cold  dinners, 
from  the  meat-box  at  the  country  taverns,  with  a  glass 
of  cider  for  table  privilege — the  deep  sleep  at  night,  or, 


METHOD   AT   PUNDISON    HOUSE.       143 

if  in  summer,  the  long,  long  day,  in  which  to  rest  and 
sleep,  and  all  the  cool  night  for  the  drive. 

One  other  candle-light  memory  is  of  books,  and  the 
lamp,  and  the  chapel-hell !  but  of  the  two,  the  first,  as 
it  is  the  brightest,  so  it  is  the  more  airy  and  pleasant. 

But  we  are  talking  now  of  Pundison  House  and  my 
father.  After  his  breakfast,  the  day  divides  itself — pre 
cisely  as  the  clock  divides  it — in  hours,  halves,  and 
quarters ;  in  which,  at  the  proper  time,  letters  are 
received  and  answered — the  newspaper  glanced  at  only, 
the  more  careful  reading  being  reserved  for  after  dinner 
— and  if  the  weather  is  very  severe,  verses  are  written  in 
a  recess,  west  of  the  great  chimney  which  stands  bodily 
in  the  room,  six  feet  by  ten,  having  in  the  rear  a  brist 
ling  array  of  augurs,  files,  hammer,  broad-axe,  and  saw. 
Rarely  before  dinner  is  a  book  taken  in  hand.  If 
wanted,  there  are  the  Life  of  Newton,  Dwight's  Sermons^ 
in  six  volumes,  the  Lives  of  Napoleon,  all  that  ever  were 
written,  and  of  his  Marshals,  all  that  ever  were  written 
or  imagined  :  in  short,  all  and  every  thing  in  reference 
to  Napoleon  Buonaparte — with  the  Lives  of  Hayden, 
Beethoven,  and  Mozart : — all  which  are  read  through  as 
often  as  may  be  desirable,  but  never  considered  quite 
done  with.  They  are  kept,  like  Scott's  Commentaries, 
always  at  hand,  where  they  can  be  reached  in  a  moment. 


144  UP-COUNTKV    LETTERS. 

* 
For  diversions,  my  father  occasionally  looks    through 

books  of  travel  and  adventure,  provided  oath  can  be 
taken  that  there  is  nothing  of  the  Novel  in  them. 

"  All  lies,"  says  my  father,  speaking  of  fiction, 
"nothing  but  lies,  fire,  murder,  and  brimstone.  What 
I  want,  sir,  is  truth :  truth,  action,  and  energy,  but 
always  truth :  or,  if  it's  a  sermon,  let  it  be  upon  death, 
judgment,  and  eternity" 

A  copy  of  Munchausen,  by  some  chance,  got  into 
my  father's  room,  not  long  since,  and  his  astonishment 
and  wrath,  after  reading  a  few  pages,  was  so  inexpressi 
ble,  that  he  was  obliged  to  convey  it  all  in  a  look — a 
look  of  which  I  had  the  benefit,  and  shall  not  soon  for 
get.  The  weather,  at  our  house,  is  a  theme  of  interest. 
My  father  has  three  thermometers — exclusive  of  mine, 
which  he  considers  of  no  account — one  in  his  bedroom, 
and  one  on  each  side  of  the  house,  north  and  south. 
They  are  examined  at  all  times  of  day — never  passed 
without  examination;  but  the  first  and  last  looks  are 
naturally  the  most  interesting.  It  is  like  saying  t£  Good 
morning,"  or  "  Good  night,"  to  a  pleasant  companion. 
Great  efforts  are  made  that  those  thermometers  outside, 
should  harmonize,  like  as  the  clock,  the  watch,  and  the 
meridian  mark  ;  but  not  always  with  success.  In  times 
of  high  wind  from  the  north  or  south,  the  difference  will 


METHOD    AT  PUNDISON   HOUSE.      145 

sometimes  be  as  great  as  ten  degrees.  This,  at  our 
house,  becomes  a  marked  event,  and  gives  quite  an  air 
of  bustle  to  the  day.  It  is  inquired  into,  and  never  suf 
fered  to  rest  until  the  whole  matter  is  made  clear. 

At  high  noon,  by  the  clock  and  the  meridian  mark, 
my  father  dines.  Variations  are  made  of  fifteen  minutes 
sooner,  or  later,  but  not  for  any  one  day  :  if  made,  they 
are  for  certain  weeks,  or  periods ;  after  which  the  original 
hour  returns  again. 

Supper  at  five  o'clock,  and  at  twelve  my  father  re 
tires.  This  is  the  winter  arrangement ;  and  our  winter 
includes  March.  At  the  1st  of  April,  the  hour  for  retir 
ing  is  at  half-past  eleven ;  at  the  1st  of  May,  eleven — 
the  even  hour.  The  Lours  for  breakfast,  correspondingly, 
one  half,  and  an  hour  earlier.  By  twelve  for  retiring,  I 
mean — not  ten  minutes  before  or  after,  but  the  precise 
point  of  midnight,  for  which — the  meridian  mark  being 
of  no  use  at  night — the  watch  and  clock  are  consulted. 
At  eleven  o'clock,  I  walk  into  my  father's  room,  and  sit 
with  him  until  the  day  is  finished.  If  he  is  quite  well, 
conversation  ensues — statements  and  discussions,  with 
proper  pauses  for  reflection.  But  if  not  very  well,  there 
is  no  consciousness  of  my  presence  ;  an  occasional  look, 
but  nothing  more.  As  the  hands  approach  the  twelve 

mark,  my  father,  without  rising,  lifts  his  candle  towards 

7 


140  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

the  face  of  the  clock,  and  notes  its  progress.  This  action 
is  repeated  a  second  or  third  time,  and  five  minutes  be 
fore  that  mark  is  reached,  bolts  and  bars  are  adjusted, 
vacant  rooms  are  visited  without  a  light,  and  smelt  at 
with  some  violence,  as  to  possible  fires ;  a  look  is  made 
down  and  up  the  cellar  and  chamber  stairs,  with  the 
same  intent  and  action — and  my  father  retires  to  his 
room.  After  a  few  moments  he  re-appears,  as  if  to  re 
view  the  fact  that  he  is  now  retiring ;  takes  a  last  look 
at  the  south  thermometer,  a  last  glance  at  the  fire — and 
Pundison  House  is  at  rest.  Any  jar,  step,  or  concus 
sion,  woxiM  now  be  an  alarm,  reported  at  once  by  the 
dogs,  who  take  charge  from  this  time  to  candle-light 
again,  of  the  next  day.  Such,  Mr,  is  the  way  we  havo 
in  this  remote  up-country.  Each  day  is  fairly  and  fully 
begun,  and  as  fairly  and  fully  completed.  ]STo  fragment 
left :  no  fragment  lost — not  even  the  naps,  as  they  are 
part  of  the  arrangement.  Tcmpus  fugit  is  true,  sir : 
but  nothing  to  be  dreaded  or  courted ; — but  to  "be  let 
alone.  It  is  right  as  it  is.  If  time  moves,  move  with 
it;  and  no  matter  what  the  speed- — the  tremendous 
propulsion — the  whirlwind  of  motion — you,  yourself, 
will  be  calm  as  the  Polar  star.  These  last  remarks,  sir, 
are  very  profound:  I  have  gaped  twice  in  trying  to 
fathom  their  depths.  Good  night.  Z.  P. 


II. 


I  VMS  dining  at  a  public  table,  last  summer,  when  a 
young  lady  came  in,  and  taking  a  seat  directly  opposite 
to  mine,  began  to  push  against  my  feet,  and  to  pound 
them,  this  way  and  that,  with  considerable  force.  As 
the  table  was  narrow,  and  I  was  braced  back  a  little,  she 
had  a  fair  field  for  whatever  combative  performances  she 
might  choose  to  get  up.  I  saw  that  she  was  wholly  un 
conscious  of  what  she  was  about,  but  having  nothing 
else  to  do,  I  concluded  to  wait  till  her  consciousness 
returned.  After  some  little  time,  the  event  took  place. 
She  had  been  talking  a  perfect  rattle  of  nonsense  with 
her  left-hand  neighbor,  when  she  suddenly  stopped,  and 
lifting  the  table-cloth,  looked  carefully  underneath,  and 
there,  sir,  put  her  amazed  eyes  upon  the  undoubted 
boots  of  a  man.  Her  confusion  was  immense  :  whereas 


148  UP -COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

she  had  been  white  as  snow,  she  became  suddenly  as 
scarlet.  I  looked  the  other  way  with  a  command  of 
countenance,  which  I  thought  at  the  time,  herculean ; 
but  it  was  of  no  use.  It  was  plain  that  I  was  cognizant 
of  the  whole  transaction  ; — the  pounding,  and  the  disco 
very,  and  the  confusion  of  face.  With  a  courage  worthy 
of  a  woman,  she  staid  through  dinner,  but  her  color 
was  fixed  for  the  day. 

Now,  Professor, — I  have  been  sending  you  all  man 
ner  of  detail,  and  prosy  what-nots  of  family  and  neigh 
borly  matters,  in  a  kind  of  exuberance  of  material ;  and, 
as  it  were,  for  the  sake  of  pounding  somebody.  Sud 
denly  it  has  occurred  to  me  to  query,  if  you  really  care 
to  be  so  pounded :  not  unlikely  you  may  wish  to  dine 
quietly,  and  in  your  old  way.  If  so,  say  the  word,  and 
I  cease. 

I  remember  me  also  of  your  dignity,  and  how  un 
likely  it  is,  that  you  will  care  to  be  flourished  about  in 
this  vagabond  manner.  A  broad  light  b^as  been  thrown 
upon  the  high  importance  of  your  avocation,  by  a  letter 

of  Lieut. 's.     It  is  upon  the  subject  of  Dr.  Clark's 

contrivance,  for  checking  on  his  magnetic  clock,  cen 
trally  from  all  imaginable  distances,  (wire-strung,  that 
is  to  say, — and  made  one  by  lightning,)  the  arrivals  and 
departures,  of  your  sky-travellers.  The  astounding  sud- 


S'f  AK-G  ATCHING.  149 

denness  of  those  transactions  must  require  nerve  of  a 
firm  texture.  It's  what  might  be  called  walking  up  to 
the  chalk — or,  as  the  Lieut,  would  sav,  to  the — spider- 
lines. 

I  imagine  you  en  meridian,  when  a  big  world  comes 
bowling  down  the  heavens,  that  a  little  while  ago,  was 
off  Boston ;  and  a  lesser  while  off  New- York,  and  now  is 
wheeling  swiftly  on, — glorious  to  behold — to  pass  over 
your  lightning  radiated  city.  I  imagine  you, — my  ex 
cellent  friend,  my  star-catcher, — posed  in  your  jockey- 
chair,  with  one  hand  grasping  the  lightning,  and  the 
other  pointing  the  huge  cylinder  up  into  heaven  to  catch 
the  sunbeam — (are  you  there,  sir  ?  be  quick,  my  dear 
Professor,  or  we  shall  be  too  late),  the  sunbeam,  that 
started  on  its  journey  thousands  of  years  ago,  and  now 
is  coming,  coming,  coming, — (are  you  holding  your 
breath  ?  are  you  stilling  the  beat  of  your  heart  ?  for  we 
are  hard  on) — tally-ho  !  tally-ho !  tally-ho  !  ready — 

FIRE  !  And  on  goes  that  immense  sun, — one 

of  God's  great  creatures, — (timed  however  for  all  eter 
nity,)  with  its  family  of  swift-rolling  worlds  about  it; 
but  all  dark  in  the  infinite  distance !  Rather  high  and 
lofty  business  this  :  something  solemn-like.  Don't  you 
hear  a  kind  of  low  thunder, — very  low, — very  deep, — 
as  they  go  by  ?  Do  you  ever  open  the  window,  and 


150  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

shout, — (rather,  do  you  not  fall  to  the  ground,  and  say 
it  with  trembling  utterance) — 

Salltlnjnj]  1  lallflajat) !  far  tj)t  lorfc  (Boil  (Dnmtptfnt  rttgnttl)  I 

And  how,  sir,  after  checkmating  a  star,  do  you  man 
age  to  get  down  to  our  old-fashioned  world,  and  the  City 
of  Washington,  and  the  street  before  the  door  2  and  are 
you  there  when  you  get  there  ?  Street-walking,  without 
knocking  people  over,  eating,  drinking,  whistling — (you 
whistle,  I  hope,  as^well  as  ever, — I  wouldn't  lose  my 
whistling  for  gold, — I  was  going  to  say  for  books  :)  all 
these,  with  money-thinking,  and  world  affairs  generally, 
must  seem  rather  tame.  Do  you  ever  dream,  Professor  ? 
Do  you  sometimes  imagine  yourself  swinging  off  into 
the  "  magnificent "  upper  distances,  and  somebody  look 
ing  at  you,  through  a  barrel  ?  How  did  you  perform  ? 
How  did  you  gyrate,  so  to  speak,  in  that  tumultuous 
outside,  that  still  and  solemn  universality  of  things  ? 

Did  you  carry  out  Kepler  ?  Did  you  go  according 
to  Galileo  ?  How  were  the  squares  of  the  distances  ? 
How  looked  the  sun,  and  the  moon,  and  did  you  de 
cide  any  thing  special  in  regard  to  matters  and  things 
in  general?  I  imagine  you,  alighting  from  such  a  trip  ; 
your  black  eyes  blacker  than  ever ;  your  laugh  more 
than  ever  rotund ;  and  your  whole  face  sparkling  with 
the  wonders  there  seen. 


STAR-CATCHING.  151 

But  in  these  outside  journeys,  have  you  ever  dropped 
down  through  the  rather  various  gold-dust  and  diamonds 
of  the  universe,  down,  down,  and  for  ever  down,  till  you 
arrive  at  what  seems  the  veritable  outer  darkness ;  and 
even  there,  have  been  suddenly  blinded,  by  the  sweep 
of  the  long  tail  of  some  world  erratic,  whose  doom  is, — 
for  ever  and  for  ever  to  play,  like  a  shuttle,  in  and  out  of 
that  black  and  bottomless  abyss?  Have  you  been 
there? 

Never  fear,  oh  man  of  science,  that  we  shall  put  step 
intrusive  upon  your  dominions.  Not  even  imaginatively 
will  we  travel  in  those  parts :  but  rather  will  return,  as 
we  do  now,  to  our  winter-housed  comforts,  and  wait  our 
time  before  we  play  with  the  stars. 

Good-bye,  Z.  P. 


III. 

TO,  Bitir  pto-hge  10  |tttn]|. 

OH  cool-headed  and  far-seeing  Professor,  broad  and  high- 
browed,  and  black-eyed  as  tlie  midnight — the  same 
whose  avocation  is  star-catching,  and  whose  lofty  thoughts 
are  rotary  for  ever :  does  it  ever  happen  to  you,  to  be 
waylaid  in  your  thought-journeys,  and  carried  away  cap 
tive  ? — to  ride  a  high  horse,  and  never  know  where  he 
Avill  land  you,  or  when  he  will  give  rest  to  your  bones  ? 
— to  be  not  quite  mad,  because  you  see  your  way,  and 
have  power,  except  to  stop  the  prodigious  propulsion  ! 
Worse  than  this,  are  you  ever  conscious  of  time,  without 
being  conscious  of  consecutive  thought  ?  Now  to  dream, 
— is  to  go  away  with  an  angel  who  shows  you  pleasant 
lands,  and  promises  of  glory  which  some  day  shall  be 
fulfilled.  To  reverise,  is  to  go  with  some  dear  friend, 
who  has  the  gift  of  painting,  in  an  exquisite  manner,  all 


TIB,   AND    GOOD-BYE   TO   JENNY.      153 

things  which  else  would  be  cold  and  lifeless :  and  to 
travel  through  a  mathematical  problem  is  a  charming 
intellectual  exercise,  in  which,  however,  you  are  your 
own  master,  and  by  no  means  forget  your  identity.  But 
to  sit  motionless,  and  have  thought  present  itself  to  you, 
— like  pigs'  feet, — cut  off  from  all  association  ;  fragments, 
and  not  bodies, — to  conceive  of  all  things  as  original 
atoms,  and  never  be  able  to  put  two  things  together  : 
this,  sir,  is  a  state  of  mind,  which  though  you  may 
doubt,  is  still  possible,  in  certain  curious  conditions  of 
the  nervous  system.  I  speak  from  the  book.  I  do  not' 
say,  that  this  is  probably  a  form  of  punishment  in  the 
infernal  regions ;  but  that  a  sufficient  Hell  might  be  so 
made,  is  very  plain  ;  i.  e.,  so  far  as  relates  to  punishment, 
not  embodied  as  a  consequence ;  a  thing  of  perhaps 
doubtful  existence.  If  you  say  that  our  Tib  is  in  such  a 
condition,  you  miss  the  mark,  although  you  make  a  fair 
shot.  I  will  tell  you  how  it  is  with  Tib :  she  thinks 
only  when  she  has  occasion.  If  you  ask  what  she  does, 
when  she  is  not  thinking,  I  reply,  by  asking, — what  do 
you  ?  Do  you  do  as  well  ?  for  she  is  busy.  All  day  long- 
she  is  chewing  her  cud  ;  and  here  you  see,-  sir,  how  hap 
pily  all  things  are  contrived  for  her.  If  she  had  more 
mind  than  she  has,  it  would  be  a  great  annoyance, — if 
she  had  less,  she  could  hardly  take  care  of  herself.  She 
7* 


154  UP-COUNTKY    LETTERS. 

has  no  houses  to  build, — no  need  of  them ;  no  clothing 
to  provide, — being  already  provided;  all,  for  which  she 
has  thought,  or  any  need  of  thought,  is  a  pasture  in 
which  to  graze  and  chew,  and  some  dark  corner,  half  a 
mile  in  the  woods,  in  which  to  calve.  Her  life  is  there 
fore  wholesome  as  her  milk,  and  as  harmless ;  and 
when  she  is  cut  up,  after  being  well  fatted,  nothing  is 
finer  than  her  sirloins  ;  juicy,  and  tender,  and  generous, 
like  herself. 

But  the  cow  has  her  whimsies,  as  I  shall  show  you. 
You  know,  Professor,  that  all  respectable  and  high-bred 
cows,  calve  about  once  a  year ;  usually  in  the  early  spring. 
Tib  had  her  calf,  as  usual,  last  spring,  and  as  usual,  it 
was  taken  from  her,  after  a  week  or  so.  This  is,  per 
haps,  the  most  exciting  part  of  Tib's  life  r.for  such  is  her 
fury  on  these  occasions,  that  we  are  obliged  to  shut  her 
in  the  stable,  carefully  hiding  which  way  the  calf  is 
taken  ; — as  that  way  she  would  take,  over  whatever  hin 
drances.  She  has  often  been  down  a  twenty-foot  bank, 
in  the  rear  of  the  grove,  but  by  what  miracle  to  arrive  at 
the  bottom  alive,  nobody  has  been  present  to  witness. 
For  a  day  or  two,  and  sometimes  for  a  week,  after  the 
calf  is  taken  away,  the  cow  goes  about  in  a  melancholy 
and  half-distracted  manner,  giving  out  horrid  ejacula 
tions,  and  running  at  every  thing  which  has  the  remo- 


TIB,    AND   GOOD-BYE    TO   JENNY.      155 

test  resemblance  to  a  calf.  But  after  a  few  days,  these 
die  away  into  low  wails, — and  in  the  sweetness  of  the 
new  grass,  she  forgets,  at  last,  that  she  is  a  mother,  or 
apparently  forgets,  and  nearly  all  day,  you  will  see  her 
sitting  on  the  very  pinnacle  of  the  little  knoll  in  the  east 
pasture,  (for  I  speak  not  now  of  the  solstitial  heats,  when 
she  goes  down  under  the  hickories),  and  looking,  al 
ways,  to  the  rising  sun.  There  sat  Tib,  this  last  summer, 
as  she  had  for  many  summers  before,  and  was  to  all  ap 
pearance  content  and  cheerful.  It  was  now  about  two 
months  after  her  calf  had  been  removed,  when  one  morn 
ing,  I  walked  out  into  the  pasture,  and  there  saw,  in  the 
astonished  gaze  of  the  whole  world,  this  same  little  Tib, 
being  suckled  by  a  great  black  calf,  which  had  broken 
in  from  a  neighbor's  premises !  As  you  may  suppose, 
my  indignation,  not  less  than  my  amazement,  was  ex 
cessive.  But  what  was  wonderful,  sir,  she  refused  to 
give  up  the  big  booby.  In  short,  there  was  nearly  the 
same  time,  and  trouble,  in  creating  this  divorce,  that 
there  had  been  in  taking  away  her  little  heifer  ;  which,  by 
the  way,  was,  like  herself,  of  a  beautiful  red.  Now,  how 
could  she  imagine  this  black  rascal  to  be  her  little  red 
heifer?  But  here  I  remark,  that  perhaps  she  did'nt 
Tib  is  no  fool ;  but  if  she  has  a  fault,  it  is  her  extraordi 
nary  benevolence.  And  I  take  this  position :  she  prob- 


156  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

ably  said  to  herself : — "  Bless  my  soul  and  body !  look  at 
that  calf! — but  it's  not  my  little  heifcr,— the  black  rascal, 
he  conies  up  to  me  as  though  I  was  his  mother.  lie  is 
a  bold  fellow  !  there  he  is  nosing  and  butting  about : — 
upon  my  word — modest,  eh  ?  Ah  well,  my  good  people, 
while  I'm  a  cow,  and  there's  calves  abroad,  here's  break 
fast  for  all !" 

Have  I  told  you  that  Jenny  is  gone  ?  aye,  sir,  gone ! 
I  have  sent  her  to  my  cousin,  the  squire.  Johnny,  who 
is  at  a  neighbor's,  took  her  to  the  station,  and  put  her 
on  the  cars,  neatly  blanketed,  and  with  a  clean  halter, 
labelled  "Jenny  of  the  Vine  Leaves,  for  the  Squire  at 
the  Falls  of  the  Rattle-down,  Old  Connecticut."  The 
Squire  is  well  acquainted  with  all  her  ways,  and  prom 
ises  to  take  care  of  her.  She  is,  as  it  were,  retired  from 
life :  for  years,  I  have  used  her  but  rarely,  and  now  she 
is  to  devote  herself  entirely  to  domestic  matters.  In 
short,  I  have  already  spoken  for  the  first  colt.  Think, 
sir,  of  a  colt  from  Jenny, — a  young  lightning, — a  swift 
embodiment  of  nerve  and  fancy,  kicking  up  his  heels 
under  those  grand  old  mountains  !  Some  people  ques 
tion,  whether  being  in  her  latter  clays,  and  a  horse  of 
such  high  imagination,  the  having  a  colt  may  not  fright 
en  her  out  of  her  wits.  I  can  imagine  her  trembling, 
and  staring  with  a  mute  look  of  awe  and  wonder,  at  the 


TIB.    AND    GOOD-BYE    TO    JENNY.     157 

apparition  ;  but,  sir,  when  she  appreciates  the  fact,  that 
this  is  bone  of  her  bone,  and  flesh  of  her  flesh,  how 
bright  will  be  the  pasture,  that  morning — how  sunny  all 
the  world !  She  will  behave  herself  with  the- dignity  of 
a  mother ; — but  if  that  youngster  ever  gets  to  imagine 
that  he  is  doing  any  great  thing,  as  he  flourishes  about 
the  lots,  how  Avill  she~undeceive  the  lad, — for  the  fact  is, 
the  mare  never  will  be  old  :  especially  now  that  she  is  to 
have  colts,  and  to  lead  a  pastoral  life,  for  the  rest  of  her 
days. 

Good-bye,  Jenny :  never  again  shall  I  go  over  your 
head,  in  a  somerset,  as  I  did  so  often,  years  and  years 
ago.  I  am  safe  from  that,  and  you  are  let  out  into 
sweet  grasses,  and  young  peas,  and  all  good  things,  for 
the  rest  of  your  life.  But,  by  and  by,  as  the  years  roll 
on,  you  will,  some  day,  wander  away  up  the  hill  side, 
and  there  lie  down  for  the  last  time,  under  the  big  apple 
tree  by  the  lane;  and  by  that  time,  perhaps,  or  sooner, 
I  shall  have  done  with  looking  on,  in  this  swift-footed 
life,  and  the  light  of  the  river  and  the  pasture  will  have 
faded  away.  Good-bye:  good-bye. 


IV. 


Up-Co«ntry,  December,  1850. 

COMING  down  from  looking  at  the  heavens,  and  spying 
into  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  universe,  you  have 
flattered  me,  sir,  that  it  affords  you  a  pleasant  recreation 
to  look  into  our  small  sayings  and  doings,  which  I  send 
you  so  faithfully  :  and  so  we  make  a  happy  exchange. 
I  send  you  an  up-country  incident,  and  you  return  me  a 
star  of  the  first  magnitude  :  for  a  large  piece  of  gossip, 
you  send  me  up  one  of  those  pretty  waifs  that  are  float 
ing  about  the  sky  ;  and  if  I  were  to  overpower  you  with 
good  things,  I  suppose  you  would  offer  me  nothing  less 
than  the  milky  way.  But  don't  send  it  now  :  I  will 
ask  for  it  when  I  want  it.  I  wish  now  to  keep  within 
my  own  beat.  And  let  us  hope,  sir,  it  is  no  reflection 
upon  one's  manhood,  if,  after  trying  our  hand  in  the 
world's  doings,  we  step  aside  for  a  little  while,  and  look 


TALK   WITH    THE    PROFESSOR.        159 

on.  There  is  no  harm  in  taking  breath.  "Whether  I 
shall  adventure  again,  ever,  is  a  question;  as  L  is  a 
question  whether  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  clothe;  this 
body  with  sufficient  strength  to  bear  such  adventure. 
But,  I  confess,  even  here  in  the  quiet  up-country,  to 
occasional  ambitions  for  that  old  excitement,  the  rough 
and  tumble  of  life — the  up  and  the  down— and  the 
"  chassee  all" — and  that  glorious  "  hands  all  round."  I 
would  like,  too,  to  do  battle  with  those  ugly  mischiefs 
which  the  devil  has  wound  about  us,  and  to  do  some 
good  in  the  Avorld  before  the  day  I  die.  But  I  am 
crippled,  sir,  and  must  be  content  with  the  playthings 
of  life.  Even  small  things  sometimes  stagger  me,  and 
the  most  belittled  enterprise  becomes  mountainous.  But 
God  will  take  care  of  the  world,  and  of  its  people  ;  and 
in  good  time  all  will  be  right.  Bustle  and  hurry  gain 
nothing.  What  is  the  use  of  time  if  it  be  not  to  build 
up  and  restore,  and  make  perfect  all  things  ?  but  it 
must  be  done  slowly,  or  all  time  would  need  be  but  a 
day.  All  who  have  ever  lived  and  died,  and  all  who 
ever  will  live,  might  have  been  born  this  morning,  and 
have  had  plenty  of  time  to  get  on  to  the  next  world, 
comfortably,  before  sundown.  But  time  implies  some 
thing  to  be  done. 

How  found  you  the  world,  sir,  what  time  you  went 


160  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

cruising  up  and  down  the  high  seas ;  summering  in 
that  lazy  Mediterranean :  boar-hunting  at  Algiers ;  or 
medal-hunting  at  Pompeii ;  or  philosophizing  at  Con 
stantinople  ;  or  again,  after  a  three  weeks'  sail  across  the 
Atlantic,  reverizing  under  the  walls  of  San  Juan  d'U lloa  ? 
Men  and  women  pretty  much  the  same,  all  the  world 
over  ?  and  little  boys  and  girls,  God  bless  them  !  always 
the  same :  always  full  of  hope  and  joy,  and  the  golden 
promises ;  "  For  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 
And  always  it  was  pleasant — was  it  not,  sir — to  get 
back  to  your  ship,  and  to  your  small  routine  of  duties ; 
for  that  was  home :  that  was  your  place  for  rest,  and 
dreams,  and  reveries. 

We  reverse  the  case,  exactly,  but  with  the  same  re 
sults.     Having  been  on  a  little  cruise,  we  have  come 

O  * 

ashore,  and  are  not  sorry  for  the  change :  that  touch  of 
sea-sickness,  for  instance,  we  never  liked  ;  to  the  last,  it 
was  disagreeable.  If  you  ask  why  we  avoid  the  town, 
I  reply  that  the  very  idea  of  rest,  implies  the  country. 
My  sympathies  go  with  the  mass  ;  and  to  be  in  Broad 
way  and  not  be  of  it,  is,  with  me,  simply  impossible.  I 
should  be  in  a  whirlwind,  and  die  in  two  months.  But 
the  country  is  sedative  ;  and  to  one  whose  life  depends 
upon  the  avoidance  of  excitement  or  deep  thought,  there 
is  no  medicine  that  can  compare  with  it.  Almost  every 


TALK    WITH    THE  PRO  FESS  OK  .         161 

thing  that  happens  here,  happens  properly,  and  with  a 
grace  ;  almost  every  thing  that  is  done  in  groat  cities,  is 
done  hurriedly ;  or  with  great  effort,  which  is  tiresome  : 
and  awkwardly,  which  is  inharmonious ;  and  confusedly 
all,  crossing,  and  criss-crossing,  ana  competing,  from 
which  result  envy,  strife,  and  uncharitableness.  But  the 
rain  and  snow,  and  the  night-dews,  and  the  early  frosts, 
all  come  quietly,  and  subserve,  always,  some  good  pur 
pose.  The  budding,  and  leafing,  and  flowering,  and,  at 
last,  the  fruit-making — how  gently  is  it  all  done.  The 
Shag-bark,  sometimes,' is  furious  ;  but  it  is  with  a  kind 
of  solemn  method;  and  it  takes  nothing  from,  but 
rather  adds  to,  the  peace  of  the  landscape.  Let  him 
rage  ;  we  are  at  rest.  Let  him  howl ;  he  does  not  dis 
turb  little  Tib.  He  does  not  stop  the  bob-o'links,  for  so 
much  as  one  quivering  moment,  as  their  golden  heads 
rise  and  fall  in  the  long  meadow  grass. 

But  more  than  all,  Professor,  as  I  grow  older,  I  like 
to  see  things  done  decently,  and  in  order.  Here,  in  the 
country,  I  keep  a  little  in  advance  of  things,  always ; 
and  am  thus  able  to  look  each  day  full  and  fair  in  the 
face  :  and  so  with  the  seasons — the  changes  of  the  year. 
I  delight,  for  instance,  in  having  arrived  at  my  winter 
routine  before  December  has  come.  With  my  winter 
work,  if  I  have  any,  already  begun ;  all  household 


162  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

arrangements  complete,  and  perfected,  and  proved,  so  to 
speak ;  and  provisos  made  for  break-downs,  as  loose 
spars  are  carried  at  sea ;  in  this  happy  case,  don't  you 
see,  sir,  that  the  whole  month  is  before  us,  in  all  its 
richness  ?  Rich  with  winter ;  rich  with  Christmas ; 
well-timed  withal,  and  not  bursting  in  before  we  are 

'  O 

half  ready  for  it ;  rich  with  the  night  before  New  Year ; 
and  the  first  snow,  and  the  first  sleigh-ride,  and,  as  it 
happens,  this  year,  rich,  overflowingly  rich,  with  thanks 
giving.  Then,  there's  all  January  and  February  un 
touched  ;  and  these,  if  you  have  had  all  December,  can 
be  enjoyed  temperately,  and  at  leisure.  But  if  Decem 
ber  is  left  until  Christmas,  the  odds  are,  you  will  have 
only  rioting  and  confusion  for  the  rest  of  the  winter. 
Let  us  have  all  things  in  order,  and  in  proper  time. 
One  star  at  a  time  is  as  much  as  you  can  manage,  I 
suppose  :  or,  if  you  have  a  group,  the  group  is  one,  not 
withstanding,  and  not  forty-five.  And  so,  by  and  by, 
when  the  March  wind  has  howled  his  last  around  the 
north-east  corner  of  the  house,  and  the  snow  melts  from 
the  pastures,  and  the  young  grasses  and  here  and  there 
some  eai-ly  flower  spring  out  into  the  warm  air  and  the 
quivering  sunlight,  the  change  will  be  all  in  good  time, 
and  we,  too,  will  walk  out,  and  be  thankful  that  winter 
cannot  last  for  ever. 


TALK   WITH  THE    PROFESSOR.         163 

And  so,  as  we  see  the  flowers  and  the  grasses  spring 
up  from  apparent  death,  let  us  be  ready,  oh  !  my  friend, 
when  comes  our  winter  of  life,  to  lay  down  our  bones 
willingly,  and  fearlessly  :  for  out  of  death  cometh  life ; 
out  of  decay,  cometh  beauty ;  out  of  mortality,  cometh 
immortality.  "VVe  shall  rise,  Professor  in  the  spring. 
Adieu.  Z.  P. 


V. 

l  :  $8*2  Priam, 


. 

IN  a  house  like  ours,  set  apart  from  all  business  and 
bustle,  and  where,  from  one  week  to  another,  we  see 
only  ourselves,  and  the  little  pictures  which  we  get  from 
absent  friends,  the  coming  of  another  happy  face  sug 
gests  at  once  —  thanksgiving.  This  year  has  been  rich 
with  good  things  to  us,  and,  apart  from  the  last  arrival, 
we  could  easily  get  up  thanksgiving  once  a  week  ;  but 
the  general  day  being  close  by,  we  merge  all  in  the 
great  doings  of  next  Thursday.  "Joy"  arrived  last 
evening,  and  came  down  this  morning  with  the  pro 
gramme  for  the  day.  The  guests  are  to  be,  Hazelbush, 
the  celebrated  Apsappleby,  who  abuses  my  Claude,  and 
the  Lady  Miriam.  If  you  knew  these  parties,  sir,  the 
contemplation  of  the  group  would  be  almost  as  satisfac 
tory  as  dinner  itself.  It  is  just  what  might  be  expected 


T. :    JOY:    LADY   MIRIAM.  165 

from  Joy,  who  has  the  rare  gift  of  doing  all  things  hap 
pily.  T.  may  have  assisted  slightly  ;  as,  for  instance,  I 
suppose,  that  T.  may  have  suggested  Ilazelbush ;  or,  if 
necessary,  may  have  insisted  upon  Hazelbush.  It  is 
rare,  however,  that  these  sisters  differ  so  much  as  for 
cither  one  to  insist  upon  any  thing.  They  melt,  usually, 
into  one  opinion  upon  all  subjects.  But  they  have  little 
ways,  which  are  slightly  diverse.  I  say  slightly,  for  I 
cannot  conceive  that  two  persons  whose  voices  I  cannot 
distinguish  from  each  other,  can  be  very  different  at 
heart. 

But  I  will  tell  you.  As  their  names  imply,  the  one 
is  quiet  and  musing ;  the  other  brilliant,  but  slightly 
shaded.  To  look  upon  T.'s  face  when  entirely  at  rest, 
you  would  imagine  her  to  be  saying  over,  privately, 
some  little  prayer — half  unconsciously,  as  children  talk 
to  themselves  out  among  the  dandelions,  in  May  morn 
ings.  She  lives  apart,  as  it  were,  in  a  little  chapel  (a 
wheel  within  a  wheel),  but  always  sits  by  a  window, 
where  she  can  look  out  and  see  if  any  body  is  coming ; 
in  which  case  she  steps  out  softly,  and  is  immediately 
before  you  :  you  would  hardly  know  that  she  had  been 
away ;  so  calm  and  responsive  is  she,  to  your  look  or 
your  question.  Joy,  on  the  contrary,  is  always  in  the 
world,  and  of  it,  that  is,  all  that  is  cheerful  and  happy, 


160  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

and  thanksgiving:  for  as  darkness  cannot  penetrate 
light,  so  it  would  seem,  that  in  her  presence,  pain  and 
unhappincss  refuse  to  exist.  If  you  only  look  at  her, 
she  smiles  involuntarily ;  and  always  at  the  corner  of 
her  eyes  may  be  seen  a  laugh  ready  to  spring  out,  like 
sheet-lightning  just  over  the  horizon.  If  T.  has  the 
look  of  prayer,  Joy  has  the  look  of  praise.  Of  Tidy,  I 
have  given  you  some  outlines  in  times  past :  she  par 
takes  of  both  characters,  and  is  entirely  by  herself ;  with 
them,  but  still  apart.  But  all  three  have  the  gift  of  a 
happy  laugh,  which  makes  music  for  all  the  house. 
Slightest  things  cause  it ;  and  sometimes  so  slight,  that 
it  is  a  curious  puzzle  to  me  to  ferret  it  out.  As,  for 
instance,  when  we  are  all  about  the  round  table  at  tea, 
— after  the  first  cup, — there  will  be  seen,  suddenly,  slight 
flashes  between  those  three  faces,  which  betoken  a  crisis. 
I  have  never  discovered  that  it  is  any  brilliant  thing 
which  I  may  have  said,  or  any  unconscious  wit  of  mine ; 
but,  at  once,  and  without  cause,  T.  will  go  off  in  a  violent 
laugh ;  suppressing  it,  convulsively,  till,  at  last,  she  gets 
a  little  wild-like ;  at  which  moment,  Tidy,  who  has 
great  self-command,  rises  and  strikes  her  gently  on  the 
back  till  she  slowly  recovers  herself. 

Joy,  in  the  mean  time,  is  almost  gone,  but  not  quite : 
she  seems  to  pause,'  as  it  were,  upon  the  brink,  and  in 


T.:   JOY:    LADY  MIRIAM.  167 

this  manner  keeps  her  complexion  toned  in  a  proper  de 
gree.  Doubtless,  they  know  what  it's  all  about.  In 
some  occult  and  incomprehensible  manner  (for  the  intui 
tion  of  these  people  is  as  lightning),  they  catch  at  some 
little  incongruity,  and  go  off  as  aforesaid.  After  look 
ing  on  a  little  while,  at  such  times,  I  usually  withdraw 
to  my  easy  chair  in  the  corner,  and  lose  myself  in  a 
newspaper,  or  some  new  book ;  for,  of  course,  I  can  have 
no  possible  sympathies  in  any  thing  so  dark  and  myste 
rious  as  those  laughs.  I  do  not  know  that  there  is  any 
slight  tinge  of  jealousy  in  the  feeling  with  which  I  re 
sign  myself  to  the  paper,  or  the  book,  as  aforesaid  ;  and 
that,  too,  without  asking  one  solitary  question  to  throw 
light  upon  the  matter.  But  I  may  say  to  myself — if 
the  Lady  Miriam  were  here,  they  would  hardly  have 
seen  so  much  to  laugh  at.  Not  that  the  Lady  Miriam 
does  not  enjoy  a  laugh  :  she  is  a  perfect  embodiment 
of  happiness  and  high  content ;  but  the  Lady  Miriam 
never  gets  wild:  never.  Like  Joy,  she  keeps  herself 
within  bounds.  In  Lady  Miriam  you  are  not  to  under 
stand  a  faultless  character,  but  one  who  so  hides  her 
faults,  if  she  have  any,  that  one  never  can  find  them. 
Dressed  always  perfectly  and  richly,  she  is  one  of  those 
persons,  also,  upon  whom  any  thing,  however  careless, 
looks  exceedingly  well :  only,  the  Lady  M.  never  wears 


168  UP-COUNTRY  LETTERS. 

any  such,  careless  thing  :  by  no  possibility  is  she  ever 
seen  in  such  predicament.  Always  calm,  and  self-pos 
sessed,  and  in  the  world,  it  is  still  evident  that  she 
breathes  a  high  and  pure  atmosphere ;  and  at  all  times, 
and  in  all  places,  is  serene  and  happy  as  a  star.  Do 
you  not  begin  to  see,  Professor,  that  here  is  a  rich  group 
ing  for  thanksgiving  ?  I  have  told  you  of  Hazclbush, 
and  I  will  only  say  of  Aps  Appleby,  that  widely  apart  as 
is  his  life  from  us  all,  yet  we  are  in  the  same  sphere,  as 
the  phrase  is.  For  large-minded  as  is  Aps  Appleby,  he 
is  in  a  still  higher  degree  large-hearted,  and  loves  to 
come  down  out  of  the  far  away  world  of  beauty,  which 
is  almost  his  continual  dwelling-place,  and  have  a  little 
talk  with  realities,  and  shapes  of  flesh  and  blood.  I 
have  long  ago  forgiven  him  those  hard  words  about  my 
Claude.  I  shall  seat  him,  however,  facing  that  very  pic 
ture.  Lady  Miriam  will  sit  opposite  him :  then  Hazcl 
bush,  and  Joy,  T.,  Tidy,  and  myself.  You  see,  Profes 
sor,  there  is  just  one  seat  left  for  yourself.  Fail  not,  sir} 
in  completing  our  circle.  Yours,  Z.  P. 


VL 

tot 


December,  Up-Counlry. 

MANIFOLD  reasons  for  more  thanksgiving,  have  just 
arrived,  my  channing  Professor,  all  in  on«  parcel, 
package,  manuscript,  what  you  please ;  and  all  the 
way  by  express,  by  day  and  by  night,  ior  these  last 
immortal  fourteen  days  that  suffered  it  to  pass, — this 
parcel,  package,  manuscript,  bill  of  lading,  and  log-book 
for  ever ! 

And  what  is  it  ?  say  you.  News,  sir,  news,  from 
over  seas !  News  from  Frank  and  Fanny,  who  are  safe 
on  the  other  shore.  Safe  over  !  Hurrah  !  Do  you  hear, 
sir  ?  And  that  parcel,  package,  log-book, — it  is  as  fat 
as  an  octaV6 :  sixty  pages  of  such  a  looking  scrawl  as 
you  never  saw.  I  shall  send  you,  here  and  there,  a 
little  of  it,  if  I  ever  get  an  opportunity ;  as  yet,  I  have 


170  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

scarcely  looked  at  it.  T.  and  Tidy  have  possession,  and 
keep  possession.  They  laugh  and  cry  over  it,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  without  much  occasion.  Tidy  has  it  bound, 
already,  in  red  ribbons  and  a  cover ;  and  at  night, 
puts  it  under  her  pillow,  thinking,  if  left  below,  some 
burglar  (we  have  burglars  you  know)  might  carry 
it  off  with  the  notion  that  it  was  some  valuable  docu 
ment. 

Do  you  suppose  the  papers  themselves  are  very  re 
markable,  that  my  people  laugh  and  cry  as  aforesaid  ? 
All  wrong,  if  you  do.  Women  have  seven  reasons,  al 
ways,  for  every  thing  they  do.  One,  and  prominent  in 
this  case,  is,  that  the  papers  are  directed  to  them.  Can 
you  think  of  any  other?  Of  course  not.  For  what  do 
you  know,  by  any  possibility,  about  women  ?  you,  who 
are  bachelor  bachelorum  !  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  until  you 
marry,  you  are  in  utter  darkness :  darkness, — and  deso 
lation  ! 

I  have  just  read  this  to  my  wife,  who  has  been  sit 
ting  here,  reading  the  log-book.  At  first,  she  looked  at 
me  very  bewilderingly,  being  half-seas  over,  with  Frank 
and  Fanny :  but  arriving  at  last,  in  sight  of  land,  has 
given  me  the  manuscript,  and  walked  off  in  a  kind  of 
half-dream,  the  unsnarling  of  which,  will  cost  her  at 
least  a  half  hour's  looking  out  the  window.  I  take  the 


NEWS  FROM   FRANK.  171 

chance,  therefore,  of  giving  you  the  opening  of  the  log : 
but,  before  you  are  lost  in  this,  forget  not,  sir,  our  next 
Thursday ;  turkey  will  be  on  the  table  at  three,  pre 
cisely.  Yours,  Z.  P. 


VII. 

limit's  f  0g-3J0jol 


i. 


Ship ,  off  Newfoundland,  1 

Friday,  Dec.,  1850.  j 


DEAR  T. : — Good  morning  !  Good  morning  to  you  all 
in  the  up-country,  and  may  God  give  you  thankful 
hearts,  that  you  have  a  position  in  the  world,  and  a 
firmament  in  the  heavens.  One  must  speak  quick  now, 
and  to  the  point.  This  is  no  time  for  painful  particulars. 
But  still  I  wish  to  repeat  this  good  morning.  I  distin 
guish  it,  thus,  from  days  which  have  plunged  and  reared 
in  such  headlong  confusion,  as  quite  to  destroy  any 
special  time  of  day.  All  times  have  been  one — in  dark 
ness  and  distraction. 

In  this  little  breathing-time,  I  am  happy  to  say  that 
we  have  a  morning  bright  and  sunny  as  a  day  in  the 
tropics,  although  we  are  on  the  Newfoundland  Banks — 
hard  by  the  North  Pole,  as  I  have  always  supposed. 

We  are  now,  my  dear  people,  in  the  roll  of  a  calm. 


FRANK'S  Loa-BooK.  173 

We  are  taking  various  observations  of  these  parts.  It 
is  very  still  and  solemn.  What  there  is  new  to  be  seen 
does  not  appear  upon  the  face  of  things  ;  but,  doubtless, 
something  is  to  turn  up.  The  ship  is  constantly  atti 
tudinizing,  and  looking,  anxiously,  for  new  views.  The 
huge  creature  seems  almost  distracted  with  its  greatness 
and  variety  of  effort ;  still  seeking  "  the  unattained  and 
dim."  To  lookers-on,  like  us,  it  seems  almost  absurd — 
and  quite  unpleasant.  To  go  on — ah,  yes — to  go  on — 
that  would  be  to  attain  the  "  unattained,"  and  to  make 
light  "  the  dim."  Take  the  lesson,  my  excellent  friends, 
and  never  roll  in  one  spot,  like  an  apple  in  a  bowl ;  for 
you  will  arrive  at  nothing  but  nausea  and  madness. 

We  are  just  up,  for  the  first  time,  from  our  state 
rooms.  For  a  whole  week  we  have  been  engaged  be 
low,  in  certain'  exacting  duties ;  solemn  and  urgent : 
and,  even  now,  I  can  but  say  this  one  word,  and  retire 
again. 

Oh,  very  serious — serious,  exceedingly — is  this  sail 
ing  "  on  the  oshun."  Good-bye.  See  you  again,  some 
day,  perhaps,  before  we  touch  on  Ould  England  :  if  not, 
farewell !  F.  B. 

II. 

Saturday.  Another  charming  day  in  state-room,  No. 
11,  with  curtains  drawn  tight,  and  a  bottle  of  hot  water 


174  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

at  my  feet,  trying  to  coax  down  an  inveterate  head 
ache  ;  and,  at  last,  it  is  gone.  I  have  been  on  deck, 
wandering  about  the  ship  like  a  ghost,  looking  at  the 
sunset,  and  the  sea  breaking  in  from  the  southwest ; 
with  just  enough  breeze  to  be  delightful,  and  just  enough 
motion  to  be  graceful,  and  take  us  along  towards  Eng 
land  about  six  knots  an  hour  :  and  all  this  is  pleasant. 

Did  you  get  our  letters  from  off  quarantine  ?  Ah, 
my  dear  up-countries,  what  a  day  was  that !  I,  doubt 
less,  told  you  that  the  day  was  stormy  ;  but  I  could  not 
have  given  you  any  thing  like  an  adequate  expression 
of  the  gloom  which  seemed  to  overhang  the  ship,  as  we 
went  down  the  bay. 

For  two  days  the  sky  had  been  dense  and  dark  ;  a 
furious  storm  driving  in  from  the  southeast,  and  the 
rain  falling  in  quantities.  On  Friday,  at  eleven,  we 
were  to  sail :  but  the  storm  still  continued,  and  to  go  to 
sea,  then,  seemed  to  most  of  us  like  madness.  The 
captain  thought  we  should  "  lie  to"  at  quarantine  ;  but 
on  we  went,  till  just  after  dinner,  the  shore  passengers 
were  called  up  to  go  on  board  the  steamer.  Shortly 
after,  Fanny  and  I  put  on  our  storm-coats,  and  went  on 
deck.  The  steamer  had  cast  off,  and  was  out  towing 
ahead,  bobbing  up  and  down,  and  throwing  her  chim 
neys  this  way  and  that,  at  a  prodigious  rate. 


FRANK'S   Loo-BooK.  175 

No  one  knew  what  we  were  about,  and  it  was  get 
ting  dark  rapidly.  Some  said  we  were  heading  out : 
others,  that  we  had  turned  about,  and  were  going  back ; 
and  as  proof  oi  that,  there  was  Coney  Island  on  the  right. 
I  asked  the  captain,  who  replied,  "  The  ship  is  in  the 
hands  of  the  pilot."  But  on  we  went  somewhere,  and 
the  sailors  were  getting  on  sail,  in  their  merry  way,  with 
a  chorus  of — "  Yo,  heave  oh,  oh,  cheerily." 

We  went  out  on  the  slippery  deck,  and  Fanny 
pointed  up,  with  a  shudder,  at  one  of  the  sailors,  who 
was  swinging  about,  high  up  on  the  fore-top-gallant- 
sail  yard.  He  was  bending  over,  and  nearly  at  the  end 
of  the  yard ;  and,  at  that  height,  looked  like  a  mere 
boy. 

Shortly  after  this,  there  was  the  cry  of  "  Man  over 
board  /"  and  a  rush  of  men  aft,  to  the  ship's  boat.  The 
poor  fellow  had  fallen  from  that  high  yard,  straight 
down  into  the  sea  ;  and  before  the  boat  was  lowered,  he 
was  far  away  in  the  distance  struggling  for  his  life. 
One  or  two  sprang  into  the  rigging,  and  cheered  on  the 
men.  "  Pull  away,  boys,  pull  away,  hearty — there  he 
is  again — right  in  the  wake  of  the  ship — he's  swimming 
yet,  pull  away,  boys ;"  but,  all  this  time,  the  ship  was 
going  on,  though  the  steamer  had  gone  about ;  and 
now  the  small  boat  and  the  steamer  were  far  away,  dim 


176  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

and  indistinct;  and  now  directly  again,  they  were  seen 
pulling  back,  but  there  was  no  merry  cheer  for  us.  He 
was  not  there.  They  had  seen  him  for  awhile,  and  then 
missed  him,  and  then  he  was  in  sight  again,  but  soon 
they  missed  him  again.  He  had  gone  down  in  the 
cold,  cold  waters  ;  and  they  saw  him  no  more. 

As  we  thought  of  the  friends  who,  perhaps,  had 
parted  from  him  within  the  hour — the  mother,  or  the 
sister,  or,  perhaps,  the  wife — whose  good-bye  tears  were 
not  yet  dry,  and  who — it  mio-ht  be — were  even  now 
praying  that  God  would  take  care  of  him,  and  bring 
him  safe  home  again — our  own  hearts  went  down  within 
us,  as  though  following  his  still  warm  body  down  to  its 
cold,  dark  grave.  Even  the  ship — the  great  laboring 
fabric — seemed  to  be  moaning  and  sorrowing  for  his  loss. 

But  on  we  must  go,  and  away  went  the  steamer 
again,  till  we  reached  the  Hook,  or  thereabouts ;  and 
then  casting  off,  we  put  the  ship's  head  "  up"  for  "  Merry 
England." 

There  was  just  wind' enough  to  give  us  "  way,"  but 
no  lifting  of  the  thick,  dark  clouds ;  and  the  night  now 
fell  heavy  and  close  over  the  waters.  And,  so,  as  the 
ship  rolled  slowly  out  into  the  night,  and  on  to  that  vast 
waste  of  3,000  miles,  there  was  a  touch  of  something 
awful  about  it,  that  made  me  shudder. 


FRANK'S  LOG-BOOK.  17Y 

This  was  a  week  last  night ;  and  as  we  had  dined,  and 
pretty  heartily,  AVC  now  had  a  touch  of  something  else. 
It  was  sudden  as  death  :  and  nearly  as  awi'ul.  The 
whole  universe  of  thought  contracted,  in  a  moment,  to 
one  spot.  Perils  of  whatever  kind,  vanished  as  smoke. 
They  had  no  shadowy  existence,  even  to  laugh  at :  they 
were  dead ;  or,  rather,  they  never  existed.  Nor  was 
there,  ever,  but  one  palpable  thing  in  creation.  This 
was  evident ;  and  it  was  equally  evident  that  this  one 
thing,  the  condensed  result  of  all  life,  all  emotion,  was 
the  old  Harry  himself,  housed  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach. 
All  life  hitherto,  pleasant  thoughts,  friends,  hopes,  fears, 
were  not  fictions  merely  :  they  were  lies  ;  and  we  were, 
now,  for  the  first  time,  engaged  in  realities. 

The  time  passed,  mostly  in  long  pauses,  marked, 
here  and  there,  with  interjections,  faint  and  hopeless 
objections,  until,  at  last,  I  dropped  to  sleep.  When  I 
woke,  in  the  night,  we  were  fairly  out  to  sea,  the  ship 
rolling  to  a  degree  that  seemed  foolish  in  the  extreme ; 
but  walking  off  towards  England  at  ten  knots  an  hour. 
Sky  broke  up  considerably,  and  a  fresh  breeze  from  the 
west-nor'-west.  You  may  ask  if  we  went  to  breakfast 
that  morning  ?  No,  my  friends,  nor  to  dinner,  nor  sup 
per,  nor  breakfast  again ;  nor  again  to  dinner.  But, 
instead,  we  took  horizontal  positions,  in  rooms  10  and 
8* 


178  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

11,  and  there,  with  heads  just  so,  we  had  a  little 
green  tea  panada  in  a  teaspoon,  slanting  it  to  the  mouth, 
to  save  the  impossible  labor  of  raising  the  head. 

•  It  is  supposed  that  time  passed  :  as  days  and  nights, 
with  mornings  attached :  the  almanac  and  the  ship's 
log  have  an  account,  and  state  that  it  was  so  and  so — 
as  Saturday,  Sunday,  Monday,  and,  I  think,  Tuesday — 
but  to  us  it  was — eternity ;  not  time  :  i.  e.  there  was  no 
succession  of  events ;  it  was  all  one  event.  To  speak, 
to  raise  the  head,  or  hand — these  were  Alps  to  us.  At 
last,  thought  itself,  the  consciousness  of  any,  the  faintest 
outlined  conception,  became  intolerable  ;  and  there  only 
was  left  a  vague  sense  of  a  sickness  that  was  nigh  unto 
death  ;  but  what  it  might  be  was  too  painful  to  think 
of,  and  decide  impartially  as  an  honest  man  should. 

You  might  be  in  a  ship  (yes,  you  say,  admit  that — 
in  a  ship,  but  what  else  ?),  and  the  ship  is  rolling  (roll 
ing  ?  what  is  that  ?  oh,  I  understand — I  understand 
that — oh,  yes,  rolling — in  a  ship  rolling),  and  there's 
something  horrid  going  on  (yes,  something  horrid,  very 
horrid)  above  and  below  (yes,  above  and  below,  and 
every  where,  and  always  rolling,  you  know ;  don't  for 
get  that),  and  that's  all  ?  (No,  not  all.)  What  else, 
then,  if  you  please  ?  (The  old  Harry,  you  stupid !  the 
old  Harry  at  the  pit  of  the  stomach.)  Well,  then — 


FRANK'S    Loo-BooK.  179 

just  as  you  like — a  rolling  ship  and  the  old  Harry  at 

the .  (NO  !  stop  there — all  wrong — no  ship — no 

such  thing — nor  any  other  thing — mistake — that  was 
with  the  idea  that  I  was  alive — mistake-*— it  ain't  me 
you  are  talking  about,  you  foolish  individual.  I  was, 
but  that  was  yesterday.  Moreover,  where's  Tidy  ?  that's 
the  question.  Answer  me  that.  No,  don't  answer  me 
— don't  look  at  me — don't  move — don't  move  a  hair, 
for  I'm  dead — I  had  a  dream  that  I  was  dead,  and  I  per 
ceive,  now,  the  exact  fact — dead — dead.) 

And  so,  with  our  little  round  windows  open,  letting 
in  the  air  and  the  sunlight,  the  day  wore  away,  and 
down  again  came  the  night.  But  not,  as  the  night  be 
fore,  dark  and  wet,  but  with  clouds  and  stars  dashing 
along  the  sky  (for  so  it  looked),  and  the  sea  playing 
about  us,  and  boosting  us  out  into  the  deep.  All  this, 
when  the  eye  could  bear  to  take  a  look,  we  could  see 
through  the  windows,  first  down  upon  the  sea  and  then 
sweeping  far  aAvay  into  the  sky,  and  down  again,  on 
another  tack,  to  sweep  over  another  field. 

It  was  Saturday.  The  light  faded  slowly,  our  lamps 
were  lit,  the  windows  open,  with  the  sea  dashing  close 
up  to  them,  and  so  again  we  rocked  out  into  the  night. 
With  the  dash  of  the  sea  came,  now  and  then,  the 
sound  of  the  bells  on  deck,  first  aft,  and  then  answered 


180  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

forward  ;  and  what  with  this,  and  a  tired  stomach,  I  fell 
asleep  and  cared  nothing  more,  that  night,  for  ship  or  sea. 
Early  in  the  morning,  I  heard  a  weak  voice  calling 
to  me.  It  was  Fanny.  She  hadn't  slept  a  wink  all 
night.  This  statement  was  humbly  received ;  for  no 
reply  could  be  made  that  would  give  any  special  satis 
faction.  The  case  was  beyond  argument.  But  after  a 
little,  the  sun  came  up  (we  are  on  the  sunny  side),  and 
went  dancing  about  the  sky,  and  now  and  then  shoot 
ing  straight  in  through  the  windows ;  and  this  was 
pleasant.  Then  came,  also,  the  stewardess,  and  we 
made  bold  to  try  a  little  more  green-tea  panada,  and 
gradually  became  able  to  think,  and  take  bearings. 
Meantime,  the  sea  was  more  quiet,  and  about  eleven 
o'clock,  as  I  lay  in  a  kind  of  trance,  sometimes  trying  to 
think,  and  sometimes  trying  not  to  think,  I  heard  a 
sweet  faint  voice,  just  as  it  were,  upon  the  edge  of  hear 
ing,  rising  and  falling  in  a  strange  way,  and  sometimes  lost 
altogether,  and  then  coming  up  again ;  but  whereaway 
was  the  wonder.  At  last  I  made  it  out.  It  was  Fanny, 
in  No.  11,  trying  to  get  through  the  morning  chant! 
Directly,  this  was  all  still  again,  and  I  went  off  among 
dreams  and  phantoms  (and  rollings  always),  and  a 
strong  impression  that  it  ought  to  be  Sunday,  but  it  was 
not ;  which  was  very  wrong. 


FRANK'S    LOG-BOOK.  181 

At  noon,  Fanny  asked  for  my  watch.  I  lowered  it 
by  the  open  panel  through  which  we  talk,  and  she 
cried  out — "  Why  it's  half-past  twelve :  they  are  just 
coming  home  from  church." 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  bracing  up  with  an  air  of  adventure, 
"  and  Mr.  Pundison  is  having  his  dinner." 

"  No — he  has  had  his  dinner,  and  is  in  his  big  chair 
reading." 

"  Well,  Kate  is  having  her  dinner." 

"  Yes — that  may  be — unless,  perhaps,  it's  a  festival ; 
and  I  think  it  is." 

«  And  T.,  and  Pun,  and  Tidy  ?" 

"  My  dear  brother,"  said  Fanny,  very  solemnly,  "  it 
is  Sunday  ;  and  you  think  of  Tidy  too  much." 

"  My  dear  sister,  Tidy  is  an  apple-blossom.  Is  there 
any  harm  of  thinking  of  an  apple-blossom  on  Sunday  ?" 

By  what  kind  of  miracle  I  don't  know,  but  chiefly, 
as  I  think,  these  home-topics,  and  especially  the 
apple-blossom,  we  now  got  rapidly  well ;  and  in  an 
hour  or  two,  we  were  both  on  deck.  How  it  happened 
neither  could  tell ;  but  there  we  were,  Avalking  up  and 
down  the  long  promenade,  and  about  as  happy  children 
as  could  be  found  in  those  parts. 

But  it's  getting  late,  now,  and  I  must  say  good 
night.  To-morrow  will  be  another  Sunday,  and  pro- 


182  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

mises  a  fair  day.  The  night  is  hazy  and  dim  ;  what 
little  moon  we  had  having  gone  down ;  but  the  wind, 
of  which  we  have  eight  knots,  is  fair,  and  being  quarter 
ing,  we  drive  on,  with  very  little  motion  of  pitch  or  roll. 
It  is  the  night  to  lie  with  one  eye  open,  half  dreaming, 
and  waking  pleasantly,  at  odd  times,  to  look  out  on  the 
sea  anu  the  stars,  and  then  fall  off  again  amid  bright 
visions  and  marvellous  imaginings.  And  no  small  mar 
vel  is  it  that  we  are  so  far  away — 1,200  miles  from 
Sandy  Hook  (so  they  say,  to-day) — and  the  weather 
soft  as  May.  Thermometer,  to-night,  over  60°  ;  but 
we  are  still  in  the  Gulf  stream,  the  temperature  of  which, 
here,  is  66°.  This  is  queer  enough,  off  the  Banks,  and 
the  1 1th  day  of  December  ;  but  so  it  must  be.  Good 
night.  Before  we  reach  England  I  hope  to  talk  with 
you  again ;  but,  perhaps  not.  Good  night — 1,200 
miles — good  night  F.  B. 


VIII. 


Pundison  Home,  Up-Oowntry,  ) 
December,  1850.  ) 

WE  shall  be  a  little  sorry,  Professor,  but  I  fear  the  char 
acter  of  the  day  will  prevent  any  thing  more.  We  must 
be  thankful,  to-day,  for  all  things.  You  say  that  to  go 
out  five  hundred  miles  to  dine  now,  in  the  first  brush  of 
winter,  is  too  far  ;  and  there  is  force,  sir,  in  your  remark. 
When  Aps  Appleby  comes,  I  shall  say  to  him,  — 
"  The  Professor  writes  that  he  cannot  come,"  —  and  Aps 
Appleby  will  reply,  —  "Never  mind,  my  friend,  I  never 
thought  much  of  the  Professor."  In  short,  sir,  Little 
Gem  is  to  take  your  place.  She  will  sit  opposite  Tidy, 
and  the  harmony  of  the  grouping,  I  have  discovered, 
will  be  vastly  increased  by  this  new  arrangement.  Al 
though  sorry,  as  I  said,  that  you  cannot  come,  my  de 
light  in  contemplating  the  group  is,  I  fear,  predominant 
just  now.  In  fact,  I  came  near  speaking  out  loud  in 


181  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

church  this  morning,  in  the  very  middle  of  the  sermon. 
It  would  have  been  only  an  ejaculation.  "  Glad  of  it," — 
was  the  phrase  I  had  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue,  as  a  new 
view  presented  itself  of  the  table,  as  last  arranged.  As 
my  wife  was  not  at  church,  no  one  knew  the  imminent 
danger  there  had  been  of  an  interruption.  Joy  was  with 
me,  and  it  was,  perhaps,  with  a  consciousness  that  Mrs. 
P.  was  not  there  to  check  any  improprieties,  that  I  re 
covered  myself  in  time. 

I  look  now,  momently,  for  Aps  Appleby  and  the 
Lady  Miriam.  Gem  is  already  here,  and  is  tumbling 
things  about,  and  getting  herself  very  sharp  for  dinner. 
I  advised  her  some  time  since  to  take  a  small  luncheon ; 
but  she  declined.  I  have  my  suspicions,  however,  that 
my  father  gave  her  a  wine-glass  of  cider,  a  little  while 
ago  :  she  is  full  of  questions,  and  little  wonders.  Gem 
is  the  youngest  daughter  of  a  neighbor,  who  lives  not  so 
far  away,  as  to  prevent  her  seeing  me,  when  taking  my 
ipiazza  walk;  and  on  such  occasions  she  comes  out  on 
'her  piazza,  and  cries  out  for  a  little  parley.  "  Uncle 
Zach"  (she  calls  me  uncle),  singing  out  at  the  top  of  her 
voice, — "  Uncle  Zach,  good  morning  !" 

"  Good  morning,  Little  Gem." 

"  Uncle  Zach,  may  I  come  over  for  ten  minutes  ?" 

"  Yes,  exactly  for  ten  minutes." 


THANKSGIVING.  185 

And  running  over,  in  a  kind  of  hop  and  skip,  she 
takes  my  hand,  and  keeps  up  the  same  kind  of  skip  by 
my  side,  while  I  continue  my  walk  answering  occasion 
ally,  as  well  as  my  poor  wits  will  enable  me,  her  sharp 
questions  and  remarks.  She  then  tells  me  little  stories, 
and  all  important  matters  of  information  :  what  she  has 
done,  and  what  she  designs  to  do.  It  being  too  cold 
this  morning  for  walking  the  piazza,  she  has  been  curl 
ing  my  hair,  and  twisting  my  head  about,  this  way  and 
that,  to  get  proper  views.  Aside,  as  we  are  here  in  the 
parlor,  before  this  comfortable  wood-fire,  the  day  is  be 
ginning  to  make  me  very  drowsy.  Out-doors,  the  fine 
snow  is  falling  still  and  white.  I  hear  scarcely  a  sound : 
remotely,  are  a  few  ghosts  of  sound,  indications  of  din 
ner,  I  suppose.  Gem  says  she  thinks  "  it's  very  solemn 
for  Thanksgiving,"  and  I  think  so,  too. 

So  well  digested  have  been  all  the  plans  in  regard 
to  the  day,  and  I  may  say,  so  accustomed  has  Mrs. 
P.  become,  of  late,  to  getting  a  dinner, — we  are  all  very 
calm.  My  wife  may  be  said  to  be  a  fraction  more  in  the 
world ;  but  Joy  and  Tidy  laugh  and  dream,  as  usual. 
I  think  now,  Professor,  I  will  take  a  little  nap  before  the 
guests  arrive.  Gom  has  gone  out  to  get  Rover  and 
Pompey  engaged  in  a  gentle  growl :  (I  say  growl  only, 
for  I  should  hope  her  feminine  nature  would  recoil  from 


186  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

a  fight :)  whereas,  a  growl,  like  the  tuning  of  instru 
ments  before  the  full  crash  of  performance,  pleases  her. 
But,  as  I  said,  I  will  nap  now,  if  you  please.  Good-bye, 
Professor, — Good-b-y-e. 

A  half  hour  after  writing  the  above,  I  came  up  from 
a  light  slumber,  at  the  sound  of  steps  on  the  piazza ; 
and  going  to  the  door,  behold  Aps  Appleby,  and  the 
Lady  Miriam,  white  with  snow,  and  chatting  together 
like  old  acquaintances.  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
fortunate  than  their  casual  meeting  at  the  gate,  and  so 
avoiding  the  stiffness  of  a  cold  introduction.  Snow  is  so 
insinuating,  that  I  defy  any  two  of  the  most  distant  bo 
dies,  not  to  melt  together  somewhat  when  under  its 
influence.  It  had  been  so  with  the  Lady  Miriam  and 
Aps  Appleby. 

As  soon  as  the  latter  was  well  seated,  and  the  small 
salutations  and  inquiries  were  over,  I  remarked, — "  The 
Professor  says  he  cannot  come."  "Never  mind,  my 
friend,"  said  he,  "  I  never  thought  much  of  the  Profes 
sor."  (The  startling  identity  of  words,  sir,  made  me 
almost  tremble.  You  will  observe  that  it  was  precisely 
what  I  foretold  Aps  Appleby  would  say,  and  again  I 
must  urge  upon  you,  not  to  suppose  that  I  have  any 
feeling  in  thte  matter.  Aps  Appleby  says  what  he 
pleases, — every  body  who  knows  him  knows  that ;  and 


THANKSGIVING.  187 

now  I  think  of  it,  it's  not  unlikely  the  remark  may  have 
been  playfully  ironic.  I  give  you,  sir,  the  benefit  of  the 
suggestion.) 

At  this  moment,  in  came  our  friend  Mr.  Hazelbush, 
all  aglow  with  the  winter  weather,  and  escorted  by  T. 
and  Joy,  who  had  met  him  at  the  door.  "  Lady  Miriam," 
said  I,  addressing  that  lady, — "  I  have  the  happiness  of 
presenting  to  your  acquaintance,  our  particular  friend, 
Mr.  Hazelbush."  "  I  am  most  happy,  sir,"  said  Lady 
M.,  giving  her  hand, — "  to  make  your  acquaintance ;" 
and  saying  this,  she  looked  upon  him  with  her  great 
black  eyes,  till  he  blushed  through  to  his  fingers'  end. 
Hazelbush,  however,  is  not  the  man  to  be  easily  con 
founded,  and,  in  fact,  if  he  has  a  penchant  for  worldly 
things,  it  no  doubt  is  for  black  eyes  and  brilliant  com 
plexions. 

Tidy  came  in,  at  this  time,  and  the  ladies  having  all 
saluted  each  other  (as  little  white  clouds  touch  in  heaven, 
and  then  gracefully  subside),  Gem  who  had  been  pre 
sented,  took  the  edge  of  a  chair,  and  looked  straight  in 
the  fire.  In  the  bustle  of  conversation  around  her,  she 
soon  got  abstracted,  and  was  singing  a  little  song  all 
alone  to  herself,  when  the  word  dinner  became  in  some 
manner  conscious  to  all  parties,  and  we  all  arose.  Mra. 
Pundi-on  led  the  way  with  Aps  Appleby,  then  Hazelbush 


188  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

and  Joy,  Tidy  and  Gem,  and  the  Lady  Miriam  with 
your  bumble  servant.  Standing,  for  a  moment,  as  we 
gathered  about  the  table,  Hazelbush  dropped  a  few 
modest  words  of  thanks  :  a  thanksgiving  grace,  compact 
and  hearty,  and  we  took  seats  as  arranged.  On  my  left, 
the  Lady  M.,  Hazelbush  and  Tidy :  on  the  right,  Aps 
Appleby,  Joy  and  little  Gem:  contrariwise,  and  the 
grand  opposites, — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pundison. 

One  had  scarcely  said  amen  to  the  grace,  when  the 
brilliantly -browned  turkey  began  to  fall  to  pieces  before 
the  flashing  of  my  carver.  To  a  feeble  arm  like  mine, 
it  is  a  delight  to  find  tendon  and  muscle  yielding  so 
gracefully.  Do  you  understand  the  keen  relish,  sir,  of 
this  performance — the  proper  cutting  up  of  a  turkey  ? 
the  smooth  and  polished  breast-plates,  and  the  nicely- 
rounded  hip-joint,  falling  off  before  the  glittering  edge  ; 
and  the  side-bones  crushing  through,  like  the  cutting  of 
salad!  Rapidly  as  this  was  done,  I  found  on  looking 
about,  that  every  body  was  already  dining,  in  such  a 
way  as  suited  best,  for  the  time ;  and  Mrs.  P.  and 
Hazelbush  were  discussing  the  day.  Asking  some  ques 
tion  of  Aps  Appleby,  I  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  find 
that  gentleman  entirely  absorbed.  The  Lady  Miriam 
had  already  led  him  into  a  delicate  entanglement,  on  a 
question  of  taste,  so  that  it  was  not  so  wonderful  that  he 


THANKSGIVING.  189 

did  not  hear  me :  he  was  also  swallowing  a  large  oyster 
at  that  moment,  and  swallowing,  like  gaping,  you  know, 
affects  the  hearing.  Hazelbush  was  busy,  as  I  have  said, 
in  a  lively  conversation  with  Mrs.  P.,  but  evidently 
aimed  at  Joy,  and  as  far  as  one  could  judge,  with  excel 
lent  effect.  Tidy  was  dining  in  a  quiet  way,  keeping  a 
little  memorandum,  by  herself,  of  all  the  sayings  and 
doings,  and  had  already  pulled  wish-bones  with  Little 
Gem.  As  the  dinner  progressed,  a  bottle  of  champagne 
went  quietly  around  the  table,  and  Aps  Appleby  began 
to  be  bold  and  dogmatical.  Hazelbush,  on  the  contrary, 
was  more  retiring  than  ever,  and  more  especially  as  Joy 
was  beginning  to  laugh  now,  upon  even  the  slightest 
pretext  for  such  a  proceeding.  Mrs.  P.  was  evidently 
going  into  a  certain  phase,  as  it  were,  indicated  by  a 
look  of  great  calmness,  and  extreme  readiness  for  any, 
the  most  unlocked  for  emergency ;  and  her  usually  pale 
face,  was  taking,  gradually,  the  most  delicate  tints,  up, 
up,  up  ;  as  at  sunrise  of  summer  mornings,  a  crimson 
outline  goes  away  into  heaven,  and  is  lost,  prophesying 
the  day. 

In  this  happy  position  of  things  and  persons,  I  had 
only  to  dine  with  my  own  individual  self,  and  let  things 
go  on.  After  a  little,  the  conversation  died  away  into 
one  corner,  where  Aps  Appleby  was  discussing  the  mean- 


190  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

ing  of  thanks.  What  do  you  mean,  said  he,  looking 
with  great  earnestness  at  the  Lady  Miriam,  when  you 
say — "  I  thank  you  ?" 

Such  a  direct  question  as  this,  to  the  Lady  Miriam, 
who  had  not,  up  to  this  time,  said  "  I  thank  you,"  to 
Aps  Appleby,  with  any  special  meaning,  was  a  little  em 
barrassing  :  and  if  I  remember  right,  the  Lady  Miriam 
blushed,  and  was  slightly  overcast  for  the  space  of  half 
a  minute  or  more. 

"  What  does  it  mean,"  continued  Aps  Appleby, 
looking  round  the  table, — "  the  phrase,  /  thank  you  ?" 

"  It  means,"  said  T.,  "  I  wish  to  express  to  you,  the 
pleasure  you  give  me." 

"  Pretty  good,"  said  Hazelbush,  "  and  what,  says 
Miss  Joy?" 

"  It  means,"  said  Joy,  "  I  am  very  happy  about  it." 

"  Excellent,"  said  Hazelbush,  "  capital, — and  now, 
Little  Gem,  what  is  your  opinion  ?" 

Little  Gem  took  a  chicken-bone  out  of  her  mouth, 
and  asked, — what  was  the  question.  The  question  is, 
said  I,  what  do  you  mean,  Little  Gem,  when  you  say, 
"  I  thank  you  ?"  "  Why,  if  it  is  you,  Uncle  Zach,  it's 
just  the  same  as  to  say, — '  I  love  you.'  " 

It  was  agreed  by  all,  even  Aps  Appleby  not  disput 
ing  it,  that  Gem  had  given  the  true  meaning :  i.  e., 


THANKSGIVING.  191 

that  it  depends  upon  the  service  rendered,  and  the  per 
son  (this  especially)  rendering  the  service. 

"  It  must  be  so,"  said  the  Lady  Miriam,  "  for  we 
find  it  difficult  and  sometimes  impossible  to  thank  one 
\ve  dislike,  even  for  the  greatest  kindness." 

"Which  we  ought  to  do,  however,"  said  Aps 
Appleby,  "  on  the  same  principle,  I  suppose,  that  we  are 
this  day  to  be  thankful,  not  for  our  good  things  only." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Hazelbush,  "  it  is  not  very  much 
to  be  thankful  for  our  turkey  and  roast-beef  and  pump 
kin-pie,  and  wealth  and  station,  and  what  you  call  the 
good  things  of  life.  The  brutes  are  thankful  for  care, 
and  attention,  and  food,  and  all  kindness  whatsoever ; 
but  it  is  something  more  to  be  thankful  for  affliction, 
and  trouble,  and  what  we  are  usually  very  unthankful 
for,  at  least  at  the  time  of  their  arrival." 

"  You  don't  mean,"  said  Aps  Appleby,  "  that  a  man 
is  to  be  thankful  for  his  own  mistakes  and  faux-pas  ?" 

"  Undoubtedly,"  said  Hazelbush,  "  you  are  to  be 
thankful  they  are  no  worse." 

''  And  do  you  mean  to  say,"  said  Aps  Appleby, 
getting  a  little  excited,  and  drinking,  unconsciously,  two 
glasses  of  wine  in  succession, — "  that  a  man,  in  whatever 
desperate  condition  of  life,  must  still  be  thankful  for  that 
life  ?" 


192  UP-COUNTRY  LETTERS. 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Hazelbush,  "  or  it  would  be  per 
fectly  right  for  him  to  put  an  end  to  himself." 

"  And  do  you  not  know,  gentlemen,"  said  I,  inter 
rupting  them,  "that  it  is  entirely  right  for  a  man, 
under  certain  circumstances,  to  put  an  end  to  himself  ?" 
They  were  not  aware  that  it  could  be.  "  Do  you  re 
member,"  I  continued,  "  a  famous  Dr.  B.,  of  Boston  ; 
the  Rev.  Dr.  B.,  who  had  some  queer  ways  about  him, 
some  of  which  consisted  in  quizzing  every  body,  not  ex 
cepting  his  own  wife  and  daughters  ?  On  one  occasion, 
having  an  Irish  servant  in  the  house,  who  was  not  very 
quick  at  detecting  nonsense,  he  told  her,  with  an  air  of 
great  trepidation,  to  run  to  her  mistress  and  tell  her, — 
that  Dr.  B.  had  put  an  end  to  himself.  The  girl,  ac 
cordingly,  having  delivered  the  message,  the  astonished 
Mrs.  B,  and  daughters,  flew  to  the  doctor's  study,  and 
were  still  farther  astounded,  at  finding  that  gentleman 
stalking  solemnly  about  the  room, — with  a  cow's  tail 
attached  to  the  skirts  of  his  coat  lie  had  put  an  end 
to  himself." 

Saying  this,  I  looked  around,  and  was  astonished  to 
find  it  so  painfully  still.  In  fact,  the  Lady  Miriam  was 
again  in  the  excitement  of  a  blush  ;  it  was  but  momen 
tary,  however,  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  and  followed  by 
a  look  of  great  calmness.  Aps  Appleby  was  exceed- 


THANKSGIVING.  193 

ingly  dignified,  as  were  the  young  ladies  all.  But 
Hazelbush,  who  had  more  sense  than  all  the  rest,  pre 
sently  began  a  little  laugh,  irresistibly  fat  and  musical, 
at  which  Mrs.  P.  caught  at  once,  and  theS  Tidy,  and 
Joy,  who  was  almost  exploding,  and,  at  last,  Aps 
Appleby,  who  soon  became  uproarious.  At  this  change 
the  Lady  Miriam  also  laughed  a  little,  in  a  wild  kind 
of  way,  and  the  dinner  being  over,  we  all  rose,  indis 
criminately,  and  retired  to  the  parlor.  All  but  the 
ladies,  of  whom  the  last  view  I  had,  was  T.  on  the  verge 
of  that  wild  condition  heretofore  described ;  Tidy  offering 
to  strike  her  back,  which  T.  was  declining  with  a  wave 
of  the  hand  ;  while  Joy  was  rocking  herself  in  a  perfect 
tumult  of  laughter ;  little  Gem  tasting  an  unfinished 
glass  of  wine,  and  Lady  Miriam  looking  out  the  window. 

And  here,  Professor,  we  will  leave  them,  if  you 
please,  while  I  take  the  air  a  little,  and  get  up  a  taste 
for  another  dinner. 

Meantime,  I  send  you  another  of  Frank's  logs  ;  but 
the  half — and  the  better  half,  I  dare  say — is  kept  so 
closely  by  our  people,  that  I  never  expect  to  see  it. 
Tidy  copies  it  for  you,  and  makes  her  own  selections.  I 
dare  say  she  is  not  sorry  to  be  busy  with  it.  Did  I  tell 
you  that  she  has  it  bound  ?  All  in  the  gayest  trap 
pings.  Addio.  Yours,  Z.  P. 

9 


IX. 


ii. 

Off  the  North  Pole,  Sunday  night. 

MY  first  thought,  this  morning,  was  to  get  a  look  at  the 
sunrise  ;  so  I  was  early  at  the  little  window,  where  I 
saw,  not  the  sun,  but  —  the  eastern  sky,  ablaze,  as  with 
a  sheet  of  crimson  fire  streaming  up  into  the  heavens. 

It  was  the  red  light  of  a  conflagration,  with  white 
lights  trembling  through  from  the  back-ground.  My 
first  impulse  was  to  shout  —  to  throw  my  cap  out  into 
the  foam  —  or,  what  would  be  better  —  to  bowse  into  the 
sea,  and  be  a  part  of  the  proceeding  :  a  part  of  the 
beauty  and  glory  of  the  morning. 

The  ship  was  headed  due  east,  straight  for  England, 
on  a  chassee  line.  A  little  to  the  right,  and  but  a  little 
way  up  the  sky,  the  crimson  sheet  presently  gave  way 
—  consumed  itself,  as  it  were  —  and  the  sun  came  blaz 
ing  down  upon  the  sea,  giving  all  that  portion  n  flush 


FRANK'S    LOG-BOOK.  195 

of  light  and  splendor.  To  the  north  and  west,  was  the 
shade  of  the  picture ;  and  far  away  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  were  the  white  caps  lifting,  and  lifting,  one  after 
another ;  and  occasionally  a  line  of  them,  like  breakers, 
all  going  up  as  with  a  shout.  And  between  these  pic 
tures,  with  her  royals  and  studding-sails  all  set,  dashed 
the  ship.  I  ran  about  the  deck,  in  a  kind  of  burst  of 
thanksgiving,  exclaiming  to  every  body,  and  being  con 
tinually  overwhelmed  with  the  grandeur  and  beauty  of 
the  scene. 

We  staid  on  deck  all  the  morning,  singing  your 
up-country  hymns,  until  about  eleven  o'clock,  when  the 
light  suddenly  got  dim,  and  a  vast  body  of  mist  and 
cloud  came  dashing  in  from  the  west,  with  rain,  fine 
and  small,  like  the  snow  which  falls  in  keen  cold  wea 
ther,  the  wind,  at  the  same  time,  increasing,  with  an 
occasional  emphasis,  by  way  of  a  white  squall  from  the 
north — transverse  to  the  main  current — which  would 
give  the  ship  a  rough  shake,  and  pass  on. 

It  was  almost  as  though  the  night  had  fallen  upon 
the  mid-day. 

About  three  o'clock,  the  blue  sky  came  out  again 
over  half  the  heavens,  under  which  the  sea,  now  much 
higher  than  before,  was  tossing  in  broken  masses ;  and 
far  away  in  the  west,  behind  a  cloud,  the  sun  was  pour- 


196  UP-COUNTKY   LETTERS. 

ing  down  a  shower  of  golden  light,  over  a  wide  tract, 
glimpses  only  of  which  we  got,  as  we  went  up  on  the 
high  seas  that  lifted  the  ship  on  a  line  with  that  horizon. 

Such  has  been  our  Sunday,  here  in  the  mid-Atlan 
tic  ;  and  you  may  write  it  in  gold,  that  it  is  possible  for 
this  our  life  to  be  a  thing  of  beauty  and  surpassing 
glory  :  not  always  heavy  with  care,  not  always  dull  with 
pain  and  sickness,  or  bent  with  grief,  or  dark  with  sor 
row  and  crime,  but  now  and  then — for  a  morning,  or 
for  a  day  (and  why  not,  some  day,  for  ever  ?) — a  thing 
of  wonder  and  thanksgiving.  Life,  the  converse  of 
death :  the  embodiment  of  joy.  Oh,  my  dear  up-coun 
tries,  if  it  is  not  this,  in  its  pure  abstraction — in  its  final 
intent — of  what  use  is  it,  that  God  has  made  us  ? 
What  mockery  of  design — what  failure  of  accomplish 
ment — in  One  who  is  all  wise,  all  good,  all  powerful. 

Such  has  been  this  day  which  has  now  passed  by, 
and  gone  up  to  be  on  record  for  ever.  Peace  be  with 
it ;  and  with  all  its  deeds  God's  infinite  grace,  that  so 
it  be  not  wholly  unacceptable  on  that  great  day,  to 
which  all  others  must  render  their  final  account. 

n. 

Mid-Ailnntic,  Tuesday  nirht,     ) 
f*Q  Three  bells  of  the  Second  Watch.  J 

Continually,  and  continually.  That  is  to  say,  always : 
for  ever.  By  which  I  mean  that  we  have  had  forty- 


FRANK'S  Lo  G-BooK.  197 

eight  hours '  of  the  most  remarkable  pounding,  and 
thumping,  and  universal  rolling  withal,  that  were  ever 
put  together  in  the  same  company.  An  arrangement 
that  would  have  given  us  part  at  a  time,  would  have 
suited  better ;  but  here  we  must  submit ;  and  we  have 
submitted, — receiving  all  and  every  thing  that  came,  in 
solemn  silence ;  sipping  a  little  green  tea  again,  or 
mouthing  a  cracker,  and  all  day,  and  all  the  long 
nights,  still  as  children  put  to  bed  after  a  hard  day's 
frolic.  Some  day,  if  we  live  (and,  as  to  that,  we  make 
no  conjecture),  but,  if  we  live,  we  will  tell  you  all  about 
it.  270  miles  we  have  made,  to-day — with  roll,  pound, 
tramp,  smash,  and  so  forth.  I  understand,  now,  the 
meaning  of  the  word  fury.  Good  night 


in. 


In  a  gale  of  wind,      1 
Thursday,  one  o'clock,  j 


I  was  saying,  the  other  day,  that  the  word  fury  was 
expressive.  "  Like  fury,"  we  used  to  say ;  and  the 
phrase  should  be  kept  as  only  properly  applicable  to  a 
ship  rolling  in  these  pounding  seas.  To-day,  although 
in  a  gale,  we  are  more  quiet.  With  topsails  and  a 
fore-mainsail  only,  we  are  dashing  on,  at  a  quicker  rate 
than  we  have  made  yet ;  but  with  vastly  more  self-pos 
session,  than  in  those  large  tumblings  of  the  last  few 


198  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

days.  That  was  "  like  fury"  This  motion  is  that  of  a 
race-horse,  on  a  straight  course,  timing  his  distances 
with  a  certainty  of  swiftness  and  ease,  that  is  calm 
almost  as  repose  itself.  Our  cabin  sky-light  being 
closed,  I  write  you  from  the  floor  of  rny  state-room,  my 
feet  braced  against  the  lounge-drawers  drawn  out,  and 
my  back  against  the  lower  berth. 

The  storm  is  increasing,  the  rain  pouring  down  in 
sheets,  and  the  sky  drawn  close  and  dark  about  the  ship, 
and  still  she  rides  on  beautifully.  I  wouldn't  make  any 
change  in  the  proceedings,  now,  for  all  the  world.  If 
the  clerk  of  the  weather  would  hear  me,  I  should  say — 
"Keep  her  so."  We  have  a  little  variety,  however; 
squalls, — like  great  black-winged  animals,  flying  about, 
at  random, — come  down  upon  us,  right  across  the  main 
track  ;  and  occasionally  a  big  sea  walks  up  the  prome 
nade  deck,  but,  finding  us  very  busy  in  getting  on, 
walks  off  again ;  growling,  always,  because  we  can't 
possibly  stay  and  be  knocked  about,  as  we  were  yester 
day.  Oh,  no,  we  are  up  now  for  England :  England — 
Ho !  Bowse  and  away  !  bowse  and  away  !  and  now  a 
little  more  yet,  and  a  little  more,  and  still  one  knot 
more,  and  now — we  are  all  right.  Beautiful,  exceed 
ingly  ! 

"  Keep  her  so,  my  good  clerk.     Keep  her  so  1" 


.FRANK'S   Loa-BooK.  199 

IV. 

Friday,  Sve  belli. 

There  is  variety  even  in  sea-sickness.  You  may 
have  a  cord  binding  your  temples,  and  tied  tight  be 
hind  ;  or,  if  you  prefer  it,  there  is  a  combination  of  this 
with  the  legitimate  nausea,  which  is  the  extreme,  per 
haps,  of  what  may  be  done,  in  this  way,  and  is  next 
door  to  death  itself.  With  this,  you  lie  in  your  berth, 
straight,  with  your  feet  pressing  a  bottle  of  hot  water, 
if  you  have  that  luxury,  and  try  with  closed  eyes  to 
ignore  every  possible  thought,  or  shadow  of  a  thought^ 
that  may  present  itself. 

If  any  one  approaches,  you  raise  your  hand  slowly, 
and  wave  it  very  gently,  to  express  the  word  hush  ;  and 
to  intimate  to  any  bystander,  that  being  on  the  con 
fines,  so  to  speak,  the  slightest  whisper  might  be  fatal. 

Then  you  think  of  darkness  and  nothingness,  and 
what  the  brain  is  made  of,  and  whether  the  world  has 
gone  out  like  a  candle,  till  by  and  by,  the  night  comes, 
aud  you  go  down,  at  last,  into  a  deep  sleep — perhaps  to 
dream  of  the  still  waters,  and  the  silver  fountains,  and 
the  golden  sunlight  of  some  far-off  land. 

Two  or  three  hours  after  midnight  you  will  wake 
and  wonder  where  you  are,  and  how  funny  every  thing 
is.  There's  the  little  window,  looking  through  which, 


200  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

you  discern  a  star  or  two,  and  the  blue  waters  floating 
past,  or  sweeping  off  to  leeward,  to  break  like  a  snow 
drift  ;  and,  listening,  you  hear  the  lashing  of  the  seas, 
and,  perhaps,  the  ship's  bells  just  striking  the  hour — or 
possibly  the  sailors  shaking  a  reef  out,  and  singing  in 
their  sad  way,  that  will  perhaps  make  your  eyes  water : 
and  with  all  this,  lo,  and  behold,  you  are  quite  well 
again.  Then  something  funny  will  strike  you,  and  as 
you  are  very  weak,  you  laugh  for  half  an  hour  steady, 
and  Fanny  will  wake  and  wonder  what  you  are  laugh 
ing  at,  she  herself  being  almost  dead  :  and  after  talking 
up  things  awhile,  and  not  at  all  to  her  satisfaction,  you 
go  to  sleep  again. 

When  you  next  wake,  you  feel  very  brave.  You 
will  get  up  now,  directly,  and  go  on  deck,  and  do  re 
markable  things.  Putting  your  feet  over  the  berth-rail, 
with  one  arm  to  leeward  and  one  to  windward,  you  cal 
culate  chances,  and  balancing  like  a  bird  on  the  wing, 
launch  to  the  floor.  The  first  thing  that  strikes  you 
now,  is,  "  How  the  ship  rolls  !  who  would  have  thought 
it !"  and  away  you  fall — not  softly  either — against  the 
little  window,  through  which  you  take  a  look  at  the 
sea,  the  white  caps,  the  fine  drift,  and  the  flash  of  the 
sunlight  on  the  breakers,  miles  away  on  the  distant 
horizon.  These  things  will  make  you  look,  and  look, 


F BANK'S    Loo-Boou.  201 

and  look  again,  till  you  begin  to  shiver ;  and  then  you 
screw  up  the  window,  blunder  some  Avater  into  the  bowl, 
and  if  you  can,  without  breaking  your  head,  you  wash 
your  face,  and  then,  suddenly,  a  change.  You  feel 
queer,  you  are  flushed,  your  head  reels — "  What  in  the 
name  of  gra-cious  is  the  matter  ?  Bah  !  bu-ah,  bu-ah, 
bo-oo  !" — this  last  expression  escaping  from  you,  with  a 
bitter  shake  of  the  head,  like  a  dog  with  a  woodchuck  ; 
and  then,  sir,  if  you  don't  go  down  on  your  marrow 
bones,  with  a  strong  impression  that  you  have  swallowed 
the  Wandering  Jew — you  are  constructed  upon  some 
model  I  have  not  yet  seen,  and  should  get  out  a  patent 
directly 

While  you  are  occupied  below,  we  will  get  up  a 
storm.  To  this  end,  bring  up  a  great  wind,  a  "  storm- 
wind,"  so  that  every  thing  goes  off  on  a  slant,  almost 
flat  through  the  air  ;  set  every  thing  howling  that  can 
howl,  but  with  a  great  variety,  and  tone  all  with  a  kind 
of  burr,  like  the  noise  of  a  spinning  wheel — and  draw 
the  night  not  too  close,  but  so  that  you  can  just  see  off 
into  the  thick  of  it.  This  for  the  upper  works.  Now 
underneath,  and  in  and  about  all  this  tumult,  create  a 
sea,  a  thousand  miles  from  the  nearest  land,  where  the 
wind  has  been  blowing  about  6,000  years  (less  will  do), 
and  put  your  ship  there,  with  all  sails  taken  in,  save  the 
9* 


202  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

top-sails  and  the  storm-sail :  put  her  before  the  wind, 
have  a  dozen  men  to  stand  by  the  weather  braces,  and, 
behold — there  you  have  it !  a  pleasant,  comfortable  gale 
in  the  mid-Atlantic. 

Now  if  you  have  done  with  affairs  below,  and  can 
step  on  deck  and  look  a  scene  like  this  straight  in  the 
face,  with  a  brain  calm  and  cool — you  will  have  reached 
a  maximum  of  exultation,  beyond  which  is  no  higher 
Alp,  in  all  this  lower  creation. 

You  will  be  strengthened  for  years  to  come.  The 
bravery  of  it  will  be  in  your  blood,  giving  tone,  and 
health,  and  Hallelujahs.  You  Avill  almost  doubt  the 
doctrine  of  original  sin  (the  — alia  being  forgotten  for 
the  moment) — and  conclude  that  all  trouble,  all  care, 
all  sickness,  all  ill  whatever,  must  doubtless  be  con 
trived  by  some  good  practical  joker,  for  the  purpose  of 
making  our  disappointment,  by  and  by,  so  overwhelm 
ingly  pleasant !  the  ill,  the  care,  the  sin,  having  been  all 
in  fun  !  a  practical  joke.  Nothing  more. 


X. 

Griam's  Sisfts. 


Up-Country,  December,  1850. 

I  AM  glad  you  like  tlie  log,  Professor,  and  your  inquiry 
in  regard  to  Hazelbush  is  natural  enough  ;  but,  —  I  have 
to  remark  —  you  are  not  to  know  all  things.  Perhaps 
he  is  a  young  lawyer,  from  a  neighboring  city,  whose 
peculiar  success  in  addressing  juries  is  one  of  those  won 
derful  things,  only  to  be  explained  when  a  thousand 
other  occult  things  are  brought  to  light.  Perhaps  he  is 
a  young  officer,  stationed  not  far  from  us,  who  rides  up, 
occasionally  of  a  morning,  bows  to  Joy  through  the  win 
dow,  and  calls  out  to  Bob  to  show  him  the  stables  ; 
and  after  securing  his  horse  himself,  and  seeing  him  well 
cared  for,  walks  in  with  such  a  prodigious  freshness  and 
roundness  of  face,  that  he  seems  to  bring  all  out  doors 
with  him.  Perhaps. 

And  in  regard  to  the  Lady  Miriam,  I  suppose  if  I 


204  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

tell  you  that  she  lives  on  the  top  of  the  east  mountain, 
by  the  shore  of  a  beautiful  pond,  it  will  be  sufficient.  I 
will  add,  however,  that  she  lives  almost  alone  with  her 
servants  ;  and  that  her  butler  still  wears  a  shirt-collar  of 
prodigious  magnitude.  Sunday  mornings,  she  may  be 
seen  winding  down  the  mountain,  on  a  beautiful  English 
horse,  and  a  little  distance  behind  is  the  old  butler,  who, 
whenever  she  speaks,  raises  his  hand  to  his  head,  and 
says — "  Your  Ladyship."  Her  life,  up  on  the  mountain, 
is  as  like  some  wonderful  dream  as  any  thing  you  can 
imagine.  From  that  high  look-out,  every  thing  in  the 
world  takes  to  her  a  peculiar  beauty ;  and  so  much  is  this 
the  case,  her  unconsciousness  of  evil  is  almost  unbelief. 

She  comes  down  to  see  us  occasionally,  having  sent 
the  old  butler  a  day  or  two  in  advance,  with  a  note, 
saying — that  she  expects  to  arrive  at  such  an  hour,  on 
such  a  day,  and  hopes  that  my  father  is  very  well.  My 
father  replies  to  her,  in  an  immense  hand,  signed  W.  P., 
with  a  circle, — saying  that  he  shall  be  happy  to  see  her 
ladyship,  and  perhaps  adds  that  the  thermometer  stands 
2°  below,  or  whatever  it  may  be  at  the  time.  My  father 
may  safely  be  said  to  be  quite  at  leisure,  but  his  letters 
are  as  prompt  as  they  were  in  his  best  days.  Their 
shortness  and  precision,  and  what  he  calls — "  coming  to 
the  point," — are  certainly  much  to  be  admired. 


LADY    MIRIAM'S   VISITS.  205 

Having  despatched  such  a  welcome  to  the  Lady 
Miriam,  signed,  perhaps, — "  in  great  haste," — although 
the  whole  day  is  before  him, — my  father  seats  himself 
comfortably,  and  with  thumbs  twirling,  revolves  in  his 
mind,  evidently  with  no  small  complacency, — the  note, 
the  reply,  and  the  expected  arrival. 

On  the  morning  when  the  Lady  Miriam  is  looked 
for,  my  father  shaves  himself  with  extreme  care,  and  puts 
his  hair  up  in  a  sort  of  pyramidal  way,  with  occasional 
touches  of  pomatum ;  all  in  a  style  of  say, — "  forty 
years  ago."  Putting  aside  what  he  is  entirely  safe  in 
calling  his  heavy  boots,  he  puts  on  instead,  his  fine  boots, 
as  he  styles  them,  and  the  said  fine  boots  having  at 

*/  7  O 

least  a  half-inch  thickness  of  sole,  there  is  not  much  risk 
of  cold,  even  in  the  winter. 

Thus  prepared,  my  father  is  usually  on  the  look-out, 
at  least  an  hour  before  Lady  Miriam  can  possibly  be  ex 
pected  ;  and  shows  not  a  little  activity,  in  walking  to  the  ' 
front  door  every  few  minutes, — leaving  all  intermediate 
ones  open  on  the  way, — and  wondering  if  any  thing  has 
happened. 

At  last,  the  dogs  are  heard  to  bark  furiously,  and  when 
every  body  has  done  looking  for  her,  the  Lady  Miriam 
is  seen  coming  up  the  yard,  sitting  her  horse  with  great 
steadiness  and  erectness  of  posture.  My  father  steps  out, 


206  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

and  receives  her  with  extreme  gallantry,  waving  off  the 
old  butler  who  comes  forward  for  that  purpose.  By  this 
time,  also,  T.  and  Joy  take  possession  of  the  lad}7',  while 
Tidy  gives  her  a  look  of  welcome  through  the  window, 
and  she  is  escorted  to  the  Blue-Room,  which,  like  one 
previously  described,  looks  down  over  the  Pine-Grove 
towards  the  sunrise.  After  these  preliminaries,  the  Lady 
Miriam  may  be  seen  sitting  with  my  father,  in  his  room, 
in  company  with  the  great  kitchen  clock,  the  old  hearth, 
and  the  engravings,  discussing  all  great  and  important 
affairs.  Her  complexion  is  as  brilliant  as  the  morning, 
while  my  father  having  put  aside  his  hat,  shows  an  ex 
pansion  of  forehead  not  usually  seen  in  the  finest  heads ; 
and  with  his  hair  still  dark  even  at  his  years,  he  has  on 
these  occasions  almost  the  appearance  of  youth. 

I  cannot  say  what  may  be  the  subjects  of  their  dis 
cussion.  There  is  no  privacy  whatever,  that  I  know  of; 
but  we  usually  withdraw,  after  a  little.  In  passing 
through  the  rooms,  it  is  impossible  not  to  hear  occasional 
remarks ;  such  as, — "  In  the  year  ninety-eight," — "  When 
I  was  surveying  on  Lake  Erie,"  etc.,  and  sometimes  the 
names  of  Connecticut  men, — as  Dr.  Dwight,  Dr.  Backus, 
Dr.  Bellamy  ;  and  such  an  ordination  is  mentioned,  as 
at  Bethel,  or  Danbury. 

Rarely,  but  of  late  more  often  than  before,  my  fa- 


LADY   MIRIAM'S   VISITS.  207 

ther  produces  divers  slips  of  paper,  mostly  old  letter 
envelopes,  each  paper  holding  one  stanza  of  four  to  six 
lines  each,  which  he  writes  occasionally  of  very  sharp 
mornings,  when  the  mercury  is  say  20°  or  30°  below, 
and  outdoors  is  that  fine  white  mist  silvering  the  land 
scape  and  making  one  thrill  as  with  music.  Then  it  is 
these  things  are  written  upon  various  themes  :  the  state 
of  the  weather,  congress,  the  great  avenue,  life,  death, 
and  immortality:  each  verse  being  compact  of  itself 
and  expressing  the  whole  subject  like  a  sonnet.  The 
latest  of  these  my  father  Avill  now  produce  and  present 
to  the  Lady  Miriam  for  her  remarks  and  criticisms.  By 
especial  request,  the  Lady  Miriam  usually  takes  them 
home  with  her,  on  the  mountain,  and  copies  them  out 
in  a  handsome  round  hand  on  the  pages  of  a  small  man 
uscript  book  with  gold  clasps,  in  which  are  written  all 
wonderful  things. 

If  the  day  is  bright  and  pleasant,  my  father  takes 
occasion  to  show  her  his  meridian-mark,  on  the  south 
piazza :  with  which  mark,  the  great  clock,  and  his  watch 
over  the  mantel,  are  made  to  tally.  The  platform-scales 
being  close  by,  he  then  proceeds  to  weigh  her,  though 
for  what  purpose  it  certainly  would  be  difficult  to  say,  as 
she  is  not  of  the  variable  kind.  My  father  himself  takes 
his  own  weight,  with  great  nicety,  every  Saturday  night; 


208  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

rating  the  same  on  a  shingle  with  red  chalk ;  and  is 
sensibly  alarmed,  if  by  any  chance  he  has  gained  a 
pound  or  two  above  his  usual  mark.  On  these  occasions, 
the  Lady  Miriam  dines  with  us,  and  stays  until  the  sun 
reaches  a  certain  portion  of  the  heavens,  which  indicates 
to  her  the  proper  time  for  her  departure.  On  her  re 
turn,  my  father  sometimes  escorts  her  as  far  as  the  foot 
of  the  mountain :  the  lady  always  walking  thus  far  with 
him,  while  the  old  butler  follows  at  a  respectful  distance 
with  the  led  horse.  When  she  has  ascended  half  way 
up  the  mountain,  where  the  road  enters  a  wood,  she 
stops  a  moment,  waves  her  good-bye,  and  disappears. 

My  father  walks  slowly  home,  and  for  the  rest  of  the 
day  and  evening,  is  considerably  abstracted;  seldom 
hearing  any  question  that  may  be  asked  him,  until  it  is 
repeated  several  times,  and  then  will  answer  you  with 
perhaps, — "  More  than  forty  years  ago."  But  as  I  said, 
Professor,  you  are  not  to  know  all  things.  Good  morn 
ing.  Z.  P. 


XI. 


WE  have  wheeled  around  again  into  Sunday  night,  and 
our  little  circle  is  still  unbroken.  Here  we  all  are  by 
the  round  table,  and  the  golden-footed  lamp,  and  the 
Claude,  and  the  great  curtains  ponderous  and  oriental. 
We,  (i.  e.,  substantially,  T.,  Joy,  Tidy  and  your  ser 
vant)  are  here,  —  but  the  week  is  gone.  They  say  it  will 
never  come  back  again  :  that  whatever  was  done  last 
week  will  so  remain  for  ever. 

And  what  is  the  result  of  the  week,  say  you  ?  aye, 
—  aye,  —  what  is  it  ?  For  six  days  the  sun  has  gone  up 
and  down  the  heavens,  streaming  upon  mountain,  val- 
lev,  and  fields  all  white  with  snow  :  or  showering  down 

*.    i  \j 

his  bright  light  upon  the  tops  of  snow-storms  and  realms 
of  cloud-land,  —  covering  whole  states  —  and  nowhere 
one  quivering  ray  going  through  into  the  milky  twilight 


210  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

below.  Six  long  winter  nights  we  have  crawled  shiver 
ing  to-bed,  and  laid  ourselves  straight  out,  seeking  for 
oblivion,  as  in  the  shadow  of  death  :  some  going  away 
into  deep  and  calm  slumber, — waking  in  the  still  night 
to  draw  closer  the  blankets  around  them  :  some  tossing 
lazily  in  uneasy  dreams,  and  waking  at  daylight  to  hear 
Bob  scratching  at  the  hall  stove  :  six  breakfasts,  six  din 
ners,  and  six  suppers  :  a  trifle  of  sausage,  mutton,  and 
roast-beef,  some  little  of  corn-starch,  and  quantities  of 
buckwheat-cakes, — and  the  week  is  gone  !  Whereaway, 
oh  Professor,  whereaway  !  Ah !  sir,  wherever  away,  it 
is  not  lost !  We  shall  meet  it  again,  one  day,  and 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  it  will  be  this  same  vanished 
but  inevitable  last  week. 

We  talk,  sir,  of  the  fear  of  death :  should  we  not 
rather  fear  to  live  ?  Are  you  so  firm  of  step,  are  all 
your  tempers  so  happily  mixed,  are  you  so  at  peace  with 
the  world  that  you  can  say  to  next  week — "  Come  on, 
my  hearty  ?"  The  fear  of  death,  in  itself,  is  idle :  it  is 
the  fear  of  this  mixed  and  tottering  life,  which  is,  or 
should  be,  of  any  force  in  human  conduct.  Was  it 
Southey  who  said, — if  there  was  a  balloon  conveyance 
to  the  next  life,  there  would  be  crowds  going  on  in  that 
travel  3 

I  am  willing  to  wait  my  time  to  the  very  last  day. 


SUNDAY   NIGHT   SPECULATIONS.     211 

Fearful  as  life  is,  let  us  be  in  no  haste  to  make  a  change, 
which,  when  it  is  made,  is  so  momentous.  Not  that 
God's  mercy  is  less  after  death  than  it  now  is.  But 
before  the  moment  of  death  arrives  to  any  individual, 
his  moral  character  is  doubtless  in  one  way  or  the  other 
— mature ;  and  nothing  short  of  that  kind  of  interference, 
which  would  create  a  change  of  identity,  would  change 
such  a  character ;  and  it  is  possible  that  there  may  be 
some  creations  of  God, — as  for  instance,  the  human  soul, 
— which,  in  the  nature  of  things,  cannot  be  uncreated, 
and  therefore  that  God  cannot,  if  he  would,  vouchsafe 
to  lost  souls  the  gift  of  annihilation. 

But  one  thing  is  certain, — that  this  life  pre-arranges, 
as  it  were,  all  the  life  to  come :  and  in  something  more 
than  the  sense,  in  which  youth  pre-arranges  manhood 
and  age. 

If  life  here  is  properly  conducted,  death  can  make 
but  a  change  of  places.  If  a  man,  then,  can  so  shape  his 
life  in  all  things  as  to  be  ready  to  shift  the  scenes  at  any 
moment,  to  another  mode  of  action,  I  see  no  harm  in 
living  on.  The  whole  problem  of  this  first  attempt 
should  be  fairly  solved. 

And  in  regard  to  death,  we  do  not  often  think  that 

it  only  touches the  ashes.  I  am  telling  you  a 

common-place,  but  it  is  well  to  think  of  it  often,  that 


212  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

in  point  of  fact,  nobody  is  dead.  I  say  to  you,  Professor, 
nobody  is  dead.  But  all  the  hosts  that  ever  lived  still 
throb  with  life,  and  as  really  nnd  actually  as  you  and  I, 
my  dinner-eating  Professor  I 

All  the  hosts  antediluvian,  all  the  armies  of  Israel, 
all  they  who  built  the  Pyramids  and  those  old  temples 
of  the  Nile,  all  Pharaoh's  multitudes,  all  they  who  sacked 
Jerusalem,  and  the  wild  races  who  raised  high  the 
hanging-gardens  of  Babylon,  they  of  Nineveh,  and  Troy, 
and  Rome  ;  the  hundred  thousands,  who  at  one  man's 
bidding,  laid  them  down  upon  battle-fields  and  plains  of 
snow ;  and  the  plunging  millions  from  all  parts  of  the 
world :  all — all  live — for  ever !  And  you  and  I,  Profes 
sor,  are  of  this  great  company,  and  we  travel  on.  A 
little  while,  and  we  shall  be  gone  from  these  parts,  and 
God  will  have  found  a  place  for  us  somewhere  in  his 
wide  domains. 

I  look  up  through  this  wintry  sky,  and  it  is  not 
fancy  all,  oh,  sir,  it  is  not  a  wild  imagination  that  tells 
me  there  is  a  home  up  there.  Let  us  get  ready  for  that 
new  home, — that  beautiful  life  ! — where  night  and  winter 
shall  come  no  more ;  where  storm  and  tempest,  if  seen 
at  all,  will  be  as  the  flashings  of  summer  lightning  on 
distant  horizons,  noiseless  and  without  harm.  Oh,  let 
us  get  ready  for  that  beautiful  life. 

Yours,  Z.  P. 


XII. 


ni. 

Saturday,  four  bells,  wind  W.N.W.,  J 
going  ten  knots.  j 

A  BREEZY  morning  to  you,  and  how  do  you  all  do,  in 
the  up-country  ?  Your  up,  however,  is  not  to  us,  if  you 
please.  When  you  have  sailed  into  the  breath  of  the 
ices  about  the  Pole,  where  the  sun  rises  a  little  before 
mid-day,  and  sets  directly  after,  you  will  have  arrived 
at  an  up-country.  We  look  down  upon  you,  as  from 
Pisgah.  If  we  could  slide  down  to  you,  on  a  hand-sled, 
our  momentum,  by  the  time  we  should  arrive,  would 
carry  us  straight  on  into  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  You  would 
see  a  line  of  white  light,  with  a  wave  of  Fanny's  hand 
kerchief,  and  hear,  perhaps,  a  faint  "  addio ;"  but  it 
would  be  difficult  to  stop,  unless  by  an  up-set,  and  then 
we  should  arrive  some  hours  beforehand — for  we  have 
the  top  of  the  morning  here  before  it's  cock-crow  in  the 
States.  And  we  never  "  fall-off,"  but  are  continually 


214  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

reaching  on  to  an  earlier  "  Good  morning."  This  gives 
us  an  indescribable  freshness  and  forehandedness,  while 
there  is  never  any  precision  as  to  any  given  time,  but  all 
is  left  easy  and  fluent,  with  no  exact  and  painful  punc 
ture,  so  to  speak ;  as  for  instance,  when  twelve  o'clock 
comes,  it  is  by  no  means  that  exact  moment — certainly  not 
— but  some  gliding  fractional  point,  as — say  11^,  or  1-|-, 
or  1  40,  according  to  the  easting  we  make ;  and  in  re 
gard  to  which,  the  captain  only  has  any  unpleasant 
exactness. 

All,  you  perceive,  graceful  and  flowing,  like  the  sky, 
and  the  stars,  and  the  clouds,  and  the  seas,  and  the  birds 
on  the  wing,  and  the  ship  under  sail,  and  the  turncoat 
stomachs  below. 

Queer  weather  we  have.  Lightning  all  night  long, 
— so  the  mate  says — and  the  usual  supply  of  squalls. 
A  few  flashes  are  still  playing  in  and  out,  close  by  the 
eastern  horizon,  like  sword-blades,  glittering  and  thrust 
ing  among  the  clouds,  which  lie  there  black  as  night. 

IL 

Eight  bells,  third  «-ntch. 

Moonlight  on  the  sea.  All  about  what  the  poets 
have  raved,  at  such  a  rate.  We  have  been  looking  at 
it ;  and  it  is,  doubtless,  veiy  excellent — moonlight,  but 
I  prefer  the  strong  contrasts  of  the  day. 


FRANK'S    Loo-BooK.  215 

Take,  for  instance,  the  sunset  we  had  to-night.  The 
east  all  hung  in  black,  massive  and  ponderous  ;  and  the 
west — flashing,  and  mellow  and  golden. 

In  the  mid-heaven,  a  few  brilliant  fleeces  of  red  and 
gold,  half  on  the  blue  sky,  and  half  over  the  black  night 
coming  up  from  the  east ;  and  underneath,  the  seas 
rolling  in  from  the  sunset,  dashing  their  foam  like  waves 
of  light  over  the  waters.  A  little  to  the  north,  the  ship, 
under  top-gallants  and  royals,  fills  up  the  picture.  To 
this,  moonlight  is  tame. 

So  under  the  golden  sunlight, 

And  into  the  blinding  spray, 
"With  one  live  gale  from  the  sou'-southwest 

To  boost  us  on  our  way : 
"We  have  cross'd  the  seas  to  England, 

And  answered  the  helmsman's  cry — 
"  Aye,  aye,  sir,  up  for  England — 

Up  for  England,  sir,  aye,  aye." 

That  is  part  of  a  web  that  I  put  together  in  the  still 
midnights  of  last  week,  Nice  ?  It  wants  trimming, 
however,  and  then  you  shall  look  at  it. 

Good  night.  To-morrow  will  be  Sunday  again.  It 
is  a  long  path  to  look  back  to  the  first  Sunday ;  and  a 
solemn  thing  it  is  to  go  on,  day  after  day,  and  night 
after  night,  with  only  once  in  a  thousand  miles  or  so,  a 


216  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

ship  going  by  in  the  distance,  voiceless  and  still,  and  no 
land — not  enough,  to  rest  the  feet  of  a  dove,  but  only 
the  sky,  and  the  stars,  and  the  clouds,  and  the  everlast 
ing  sea.  A  solemn  thing.  Good  night. 

III. 

Sunday  night,  off  the  south  coast  of  Ireland, ) 
Wind  North,  and  blowing  wild-cats.         / 

We  are  among  the  "  tumbling  seas,"  as  the  captain 
calls  them.  I  call  them  "  pounding" — being  the  same 
\ve  had  in  the  first  plunge  into  deep  water,  off  New 
foundland,  just  as  we  sheered  off  the  continent,  and  got 
into  wide  waters.  It's  a  crazy  night ;  the  wind  outside 
blowing  a  gale ;  and  here,  under  the  lee  of  the  land,  we 
have  all  we  can  use,  and  a  good  deal  to  throw  away. 
The  ship  is  lying  low  down,  her  starboard  side  close  to 
the  water,  and  is  close-hauled  to  main  and  top-sails, 
storm-sail  and  spanker.  Whew !  how  she  cuts  through 
the  water.  The  spray  dashes  the  decks  fore  and  aft 
about  every  third  wave,  and  for  a  variety,  pound  and 
smash  go  the  ship's  bows  against  some  lubberly  sea, 
chat  comes  knocking  you  down,  and  then  knocking  you 
after  you're  down.  Not  far  above  the  masts,  a  brown 
scud,  sometimes  in  masses,  sometimes  a  mere  float,  flies 
by  to  the  south'ard,  like  the  very  wind  itself;  and  farther 
up  and  riding  high  and  still  in  the  heavens,  are  count- 


FRANK'S  Loa-BooK.  217 

less  groups  of  snow-white  clouds,  lying  soft  on  the  sky- 
blue,  and  apparently  spectators  only — while  the  moon 
walks  overhead,  dashing  her  light  broad-cast  upon  the 
scud,  and  the  clouds,  and  the  ship,  and  this  all-tumbling 
eea. 

I  only  wish  your  "  celebrated "  were  here,  to 

take  a  copy  and  make  it  immortal.     Good  night. 


IV. 


In  the  Irish  Channel,  Monday, ) 
lidle.       / 


Four  bells.     Wind) 

And  as  pure  a  morning  as  the  golden  east  has  rolled 
up  the  sky  since  we  sailed  off  Sandy  Hook.  The  sea  is 
calming  itself  gradually,  as  though  after  such  a  time  it 
must  still  wheeze  a  little,  and  the  ship  with  all  sail  set 
to  her  royals,  resting  herself  after  the  plunges  and  rolls 
and  double  contumbles  of  3,000  miles,  is  rocking  grace 
fully  up  channel  at  about  five  knots  an  hour. 

Our  windows  now  open  upon  England — merry  Eng 
land — but  too  far  away  to  see. 

On  the  left,  not  quite  within  range  of  sight,  is  sweet  Ire 
land.  Far  away  to  the  north  and  the  west,  and  the  south, 
just  tinged  with  crimson  and  gold,  lie  the  white  clouds, 
that  last  night  were  up  so  close  to  the  sky  ;  and  above, 
— ranging  over  to  where  the  sun,  buried  in  clouds,  is 
raining  down  the  red  fire  over  England, — is  the  round 
10 


218  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

dome  of  blue,  clear  and  spotless ;  not  a  traveller  there. 
Look  high  or  low,  there  is  nothing  more,  save  far  down 
in  the  west,  calm  and  erect  as  a  light-house  (and  so  like, 
that  I  asked  if  it  were  one),  is  one  solitary  ship. 

All  things  being  so  happily  disposed,  I  will  go  up 
now  to  my  favorite  lounge  in  the  starboard  boat,  and 
look  for  events.  The  roll  of  a  porpoise,  or  a  new  face  in 
the  offing,  would  be  pleasant.  Doubtless,  something 

may  turn  up. 

4t 
V. 

Seven  bells,  Le.,  11>$  o'clock,  A.M. 

The  something  has  turned  up — or  rather  down.  It 
appears  that  happy  and  artistic  dispositions  of  sky  and 
cloud  are  not  proper  here.  Wet  and  drizzle  only  are 
legitimate.  Two  hours  ago,  I  made  you  that  outline  of 
a  pleasant  morning,  and  now  there  is  not  a  clean  spot 
in  the  sky.  The  rain  is  fine  and  small,  and  the  wind  still 
baffling ;  so  the  ship  gets  dirty  and  lazy.  The  men  are 
grouped  about,  some  lunching,  some  reading,  some 
looking  to  windward  with  the  glass,  trying  to  look  up  a 
neighbor ;  the  captain  not  over  sociable,  and  the  mate — 
all  length  and  nose  that  he  is — walking  up  and  down 
in  the  wet,  with  his  hands  plunged  deep  in  his  pockets, 
as  though  he  were  feeling  for  a  wind  to  throw  at  the 
top-sails  ;  so  lazy  and  dripping  we  go. 


FRANK'S  LOG-BOOK.  219 

But  pleasant  weather  is  considered  dangerous  here, 
I  believe.  To  object,  therefore,  would  be  neither  proper 
nor  pertinent. 

VI. 

Wednesday,  noon,  lying  "  off  and  on"  ) 
the  Isle  of  Angles!*  :  wind  fresh.     ) 

At  sunrise  this  morning,  we  were  close  in  upon 
Ilolyhead  light,  where  we  saw  the  iron  bridge  200  feet 
high,  and  higher  up,  on  the  main,  the  telegraph  fix 
tures,  with  their  long  arms  swinging  about,  and  panto 
miming  in  that  prodigious  way  from  mountain  to  moun 
tain,  sixty  miles  over  land  and  sea,  to  tell  them  at 

Liverpool  that  the  big  ship  " "  is  lying  off 

and  on,  hereabouts,  eighteen  days  from  Sandy  Hook. 

A  very  grand  sight  it  was,  through  the  ship's  glass, 
to  see  the  sunlight  flashing  up  behind  the  mountains 
upon  the  lofty  language  of  those  monstrous  arms. 
Close  below  us,  now,  are  the  Isle  of  Anglesea,  and  the 
"  Skerry"  Rocks — the  surf  dashing  up  and  along  them 
(as  seen  two  miles  off),  like  white  bears  running  up  and 
being  continually  dashed  back  again  into  the  sea. 

Breezy  and  pleasant.  Mr.  ,  the  New  Haven 

man,  is  about  in  his  hat  and  full  dress,  as  though  he 

expected  to  step  ashore,  now,  directly.  Mr.  W ,  also, 

got  his  tight  boots  on  much  too  soon  ;  as  to-day  he  has 


220  UP-COUNTRY  LETTERS. 

had  to  nurse  one  foot  in  a  slipper.  I  shall  take  possession 
of  England  in  my  storm-coat,  and  hard-weather  trousers, 
unless  there  is  some  law  forbidding  the  transaction  at  a 

high  penalty.     "  At  the  opera,"  says  Mr.  W ,  with 

his  foot  nursing,  as  aforesaid,  "  the  police  will  stop  you, 
sir,  immediately."  "  Doubtless,"  I  replied,  "  but  we  are 
not  yet  in  London ;  and  now  that  I  think  of  it,  I  have 
been  to  the  opera." 

VII. 

Wednesday  night,  uevon  bells,  1IU  P.M.,  I 
Pilot  aboard :  wind  fresh.  f 

Two  hours  ago  we  had  a  very  pretty  commotion. 
A  trim  little  craft  sailed  about  us,  dropped  her  boat  aft, 
and  after  a  deal  of  very  charming  manoeuvring,  keeping 
us  on  the  jump  to  see  where  he  was,  we  found  him  (the 
pilot),  all  of  a  sudden,  on  the  quarter-deck  :  and  so,  blow 

high  or  blow  low,  we  are  in  good  hands  now  for  a  har- 

• 
bor.     All  our  pleasurable  excitement,  however,  has  been 

dashed  by  the  sad  news  he  brought,  of  the   loss  of 

the  packet-ship  " ,"  with  all  her  passengers, 

a  little  above  Cape  Clear — the  point  which  we,  only  a 
few  nights  since,  rounded  in  such  gallant  style. 

She  went  to  wreck,  doubtless,  while  we  were  out  in 
the  mid- Atlantic. 


FRANK'S   Loa-BooK.  221 


VHI. 

Eight  bells,  midnight. 

Good  night.  I  speak  quick,  for,  wow,  it's  morning. 
The  sound  of  the  last  bell  is  just  going  by.  Wednesday 
is  gone  !  We  are  in  separate  days.  "  Do  up  his  head, 
— tie  up  his  chin :  open  the  door,  and  let  him  in  that 
waiteth  at  the  door." 

Thursday — your  most  obedient !  Long  life  to  you, 
and,  sir,  may  we  be  happy  together,  and  both  see  Ould 
England  in  company  before  the  sunset. 

And  my  dear  Wednesday,  before  you  are  quite 
gone,  let  me  say  good-bye  to  you — do  you  hear,  my 
friend  ?  Good-bye ! 

Too  late  !  He  is  off.  His  skirts  are,  this  moment, 
sweeping  over  swate  Ireland.  He  is  off  for  the  high 
seas,  and  the  States.  Well :  let  the  up-countries  look 
to  him  ;  and  let  them  make  the  most  of  him,  and  when 
he  is  gone,  thank  God  for  making  his  acquaintance — 
for  he  brought  us  a  pilot,  did  Wednesday,  and  sunlight, 
and  moonlight,  and  a  breeze  to  take  us  into  harbor.  A 
clever  day  was  Wednesday — an  excellent  day — oh,  a 
very  beautiful  day ! 

And,  now,  my  dear  people  over  seas,  we  must  wind 
up  the  odds  and  ends.  This  paper  must  be  brought  to 


222  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

a  close  ;  the  pleasant  rooms  must  be  left  vacant  again  ; 
the  cabin,  the  deck,  the  sofa,  and  tiie  round  table,  and 
the  little  window :  and  on  decks,  the  beautiful  spars, 
with  their  white  sails  tapering  up ;  all  these  must  bo 
left :  for  we  and  the  ship  must  part. 

Amen.  I  am  in  no  indecent  haste,  but  content  to 
go.  There  has  been  nothing  wonderful  in  this  trip  of 

the  ship  " ."  It  has  been  a  quick  one ;  for 

the  winds  have  been  strong  and  fair :  it  has  been  safe  ; 
for  God  has  been  with  us. 

But,  during  this  same  time,  many  warm  and  throb 
bing  hearts  have  gone  down  into  the  deep,  deep  sea,  and 
there  was  no  arm  to  save,  no  voice  to  cheer,  no  friend 
with  whom  to  leave  a  last  good-bye.  In  the  dark  mid 
night — down,  down,  in  the  black  depths,  and  there  to 
remain  for  ever,  till  the  trump  of  God  shall  call  them 
from  the  deep.  Oh,  the  cold,  the  dark,  the  deep  cold 
waters !  The  mother  will  look  for  her  son,  and  the 
sister  for  her  brother,  but  see  them  no  more.  Day  after 
day,  and  week  after  week,  but — no  more — no  more. 
The  grandfather  will  put  up  his  wet  glasses  and  wonder 
why  his  boy  stays  so  long  on  the  waters,  and  he  will 
pray  God  once  more,  to  preserve  him,  and  bring  him 
safe  home,  but  now,  it  is  too  late.  He  will  see  him  here 
no  more  for  ever. 


FRANK'S   Loo-BooK.  223 

But  we  are  safe  ! — thank  God  !  Safe ! — thank  the 
MOST  HIGH.  Down,  down  and  thank  the  MOST  HIGH; 
HIM  who  rideth  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind,  and  doeth 
wonders  in  the  Great  Deep. 

And  now  it's  two  bells — one  o'clock — and  I  will 
say  good  night ;  and  to  make  it  right,  you  know,  I  will 
just  add  "Good  morning"  to  myself  (privately,  as  it 
were),  which  will  secure  us  all  the  proprieties.  Are  you 
ready  ?  So 

Good  night !  (i.  e.,  Good  morning  !)  meaning,  how 
ever,  Good  night,  do  we  not? — or,  Good  night  and 
Good  morning,  or  Good  morning  and  then  Good  night ! 

Ah,  no !  I  must  open  my  arms  wider  and  draw 
them  closer,  for,  my  dear  up-countries,  this  is  a  serious 
business  :  a  very  serious  business  !  I  beg  you  will  not 
look  at  me,  for  my  eyes  are  wet,  and  I  am  foolish  to 
night  beyond  all  expression  :  but  as  to  the  good  night 
and  the  good  morning,  it's  naither  of  them.  It's 
GOOD-BYE.  FRANK  BRYARS. 


XIII. 


Pundison  Houso,  Up-Country,  December. 

LED  away  by  some  spirit,  who  comes  to  me  once  in  a 
while,  and  whose  gentle  suggestion  I  never  resist,  but  go 
with  unconsciously  and  without  argument,  as  a  child  is 
led  away  by  some  gentle  hand,  I,  this  morning,  found 
myself  wandering  up  to  the  house  of  our  friend  Frank. 
I  did  not  stop  to  think,  that  nobody  was  there  but  old 
Tim  ;  or,  if  I  did,  I  liked  it  all  the  better  for  that. 

All  night  the  snow  had  been  falling,  fine  and  fast, 
and  the  wind,  which  was  from  the  northeast,  was  still 
drifting  it  about  in  all  fanciful  shapes,  points,  wedges, 
porticos,  and  such  like  suggestions.  Early  on  rising,  the 
first  noticeable  thing  had  been  the  window-panes,  almost 
shut  up  with  the  snow  which  had  lodged  upon  the 
casing  and  fastened  about  on  the  sash.  Out  doors,  save 
the  fences  and  the  drifts,  all  was  white,  and  smooth,  and 


SINGING   "CHINA."  225 

still.  Down,  down,  softly,  oh  how  softly,  but  with  cu 
rious  contortions,  and  little  puzzlements  of  motion,  came 
the  snow.  Now  and  then  a  shriek, — sharp  and  long- 
drawn, — pierced  through  the  house  and  died  slowly 
away.  It  was  the  northeaster.  He  was  come  down 
from  Labrador,  and  all  night  he  had  been  busy,  scream 
ing  and  howling  about  the  land,  and  flinging  down, 
broadcast,  his  fine  white  crystals. 

As  we  sat  at  breakfast,  with  hot  cakes  and  that 
nectar  of  drinks, — souchong  with  cream, — we  were  con 
stantly  looking  out  to  see  the  storm  ;  and  wondering  if 
it  would  last  all  day.  I  shouldn't  wonder,  said  T.,  if  it 
was  to  storm  a  week.  And  then,  said  Joy,  how  should 
we  ever  get  out  ?  but  it  would  make  the  sleighing  last 
all  winter,  and  that  would  be  nice. 

T.,  said  I,  rising,  I  am  going  away. 

Then  I  am  going  too,  said  T. 

No,  I  must  go  alone. 

But  are  you  crazy,  my  dear  husband,  to  go  out  in 
such  a  storm, — and  pray,  where  are  you  going  ? 

I  can't  say — somewhere — perhaps  up  to  Frank's,  and 
if  I  am  not  back,  don't  wait  dinner  for  me. 

By  this  time,  I  was  in  my  old  storm-coat,  and  had 
tied  down  my  pantaloons  with  leather  strings,  close 
about  the  feet. 

10* 


220  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  I,  and  plunged  out  into  the  storm. 
As  I  opened  the  door,  a  great  blast  swept  a  whirlwind 
of  snow  through  into  the  dining-room,  and  what  witli 
this  and  the  suddenness  of  my  departure,  the  women 
were  too  astounded  to  prevent  my  going.  It  was  only 
after  I  had  reached  the  highway,  and  was  toiling  on, 
pulling  one  foot  after  the  other  through  the  drifts,  that  I 
heard  a  sort  of  concert  of  screams,  struggling  up  against 
the  wind :  and  looking  back,  there  on  the  piazza,  were 
T.  and  Joy  and  Tidy,  and  my  father  with  his  long  hair 
flying  in  the  wind,  all  shouting  and  gesticulating  for  me 
to  come  back.  I  stopped  a  moment,  to  shout  back  and 
pantomime  to  them,  that  'twas  no  use — that  I  must  go 
on ;  and  then  shut  a  deaf  ear  to  all  further  entreaties. 
The  wind  was  keen,  however,  and  searching,  almost  to 
the  very  vitals.  Before  I  had  half  reached  Frank's 
house,  I  was  taken  with  that  sickness,  which  comes  on 
sometimes  from  excessive  cold ;  but  still  dragged  along. 
All  the  time  something  was  saying, — "  Come  on — come 
on — let's  have  a  frolic — a  real  outsider — brace  up,  my 
hearty — never  fear — come  ahead — come  ahead  :"  and  I 
would  reply, — "  I'm  coming — I  tell  you  I'm  coming,  but 
don't  hurry  me :  sick  at  the  stomach,  this  minute, — don't 
hurry  me,  I  say,  or  I  go  straight  home." 

Then  came  the  thought  of  my  people  I  had  left  so 


SINGING  "CHINA."  227 

suddenly,  and  I  remembered  that  I  heard  no  more  from 
them ;  unless  some  little  faint  stragglings  of  sound  might 
possibly  have  been  T.'s  voice ; — I  had  not  turned  to  see, 
for  at  that  moment,  I  heard  the  hall  door  close  with  a 
slam,  and  then  I  knew  they  had  given  me  up.  Ah,  if 
I  could  have  looked  so  far  through  the  blinding  snow, 
would  I  not  have  seen  T.,  looking  and  spying  out  into 
the  storm,  from  the  north-room  window,  her  face,  per 
haps,  like  the  glass,  a  little  dimmed  with  sudden  moist 
ure,  and  all  the  time  keeping  her  eye  fixed  upon  my  old 
gray  coat,  as  it  appeared  and  disappeared,  till  at  last, 
she  saw  old  Tim  coming  down  to  meet  the  said  old  gray 
coat,  and  break  the  way  up  to  the  house.  It  was  a  long 
way  off,  but  a  woman's  eyes  are  far-sighted,  when  she  is 
looking — but  never  mind.  Here  were  Tim,  and  the 
storm,  and  the  old  house,  and  all  of  a  piece. 

"Are  my  eyes  open," — said  Tim,  while  a  long  way 
off, — "  that  I  see  Mr.  Pundison  in  this  blessed  storm  2" 
"  Eh !  what  are  you  about  here,"  said  I.  "  Where's  your 
cattle,  that  you  are  not  out  breaking  the  road,  and  mak 
ing  yourself  sociable,  eh  2  answer  me  that,  Mr.  Tim." 
Tim  made  no  reply,  but  instead,  began  breaking  a  road, 
right  and  left,  up  to  the  back  door,  where  I  escaped,  at 
last,  into  the  kitchen,  which  was  all  ablaze  with  a  huge 
fire  that  went  crackling  and  roaring  up  chimney  ;  while 


228  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

at  the  same  time,  little  capes  and  promontories  of  snow 
were  to  be  seen  under  the  doors  and  reaching  out  into 
the  room,  still  crisp  and  unthawed. 

"  Tim,"  said  I,  proceeding  to  hang  up  the  old  coat, 
and  unfasten  my  leggins, — "  Make  a  fire  in  the  parlor ; 
I've  come  up  for  a  frolic."  Without  waiting  a  moment, 
that  ancient  servant,  with  a  face  of  prodigious  satisfac 
tion,  disappeared  among  the  dark  recesses  of  the  house, 
there  to  open  windows,  and  set  the  big  fire  going.  I 
found  an  old  pair  of  slippers,  and  drew  up  to  the  fire 
place.  An  ancient  cat  sat  near  one  of  the  jams,  im 
mensely  prim,  and  looked  at  me  very  suspiciously  at  first, 
till  presently  she  began  to  purr,  and  then  came  up  and 
rubbed  herself  about  the  chair,  stepping  daintily  over 
any  drippings  that  might  be  in  the  way.  At  last  she 
sprang  up  into  my  lap  and  purred  herself  to  sleep.  The 
old  dog, — "  Growler," — lay  in  one  corner  of  the  room, 
and  seemed  to  see  and  hear  nothing  whatever,  except 
once  in  a  while  as  the  wind  howled  a  little  louder  than 
usual,  or  a  board  rattled  about  some  out-house :  at  this 
he  would  not  raise  himself  at  all,  but  growled  and 
moaned, — as  it  were  to  himself, — and  in  case  of  extreme 
violence,  would  break  out  into  a  bark.  It  was  plain 
that  he  was  cold ;  but  he  made  no  attempt  to  get  to  the 
fire.  It  suited  him, — the  old  scamp, — to  lie  there  in 


SINGING    "CHINA."  229 

the  cold  and  growl.  That  was  his  way  of  living.  He 
was  brought  up  so,  and  he  couldn't  help  it.  "  Think  of 
Rover,"  said  I,  "  keeping  himself  off  in  the  cold,  when 
there's  a  comfortable  fire  to  come  to:  the  thing  is 
absurd." 

I  will  admit,  however,  that  dogs  have  a  little  pride 
about  this  matter.  It  is  their  business  to  be  on  guard, 
weather  or  no  weather. 

Being  now  well  warmed  through,  I  entered  the  dark 
passages  leading  to  the  south  parlor.  Old  Growler, 
without  saying  a  word,  rose  and  followed  me.  The  cat, 
also,  came  tripping  along  with  her  tail  straight  up  in 
the  air.  Bursting  in  upon  Tim,  we  found  the  old  man 
flourishing  about  with  great  vigor.  He  had  two  im 
mense  logs  on  the  fire,  and  having  opened  all  the  shut 
ters,  the  room  looked  quite  cheery.  "  I'm  not  sorry  to 
see  you,  Mr.  Pundison,"  said  Tim,  "  you  may  be  sure  of 
that :  ah,  sir,  it's  a  long  night  I've  had,  thinking  of  Mr. 
Frank  and  Miss  Fanny  out  upon  the  say  :  it's  dreadful, 
sir,  to  think  of,  and  they  going  in  a  miserable  sail-ship, 
when  they  might  have  gone  over  in  a  steamer,  so  aisy." 
"  But  Tim,"  said  I,  "  they  are  over,  already  :  they're  in 
ould  England — they're  ashore — they  are  safe  over  seas." 
— "Hold,  hold,"  says  Tim,  "and  give  me  your  hand, 
and  look  me  in  the  face,  and  tell  me  you're  not  joking : 


230  UP-COUNTRY  LETTERS. 

and  tell  me  again,  Mr.  Pundison,  that  they  are  in  ould 
Ireland,  sweet  Ireland  for  ever.  Oh,  no,  it's  England  I 
mean,  and  may  the  blessed  Virgin" — and  here,  having 
looked  in  my  face,  and  made  quite  sure  of  it,  the  old 
man  suddenly  disappeared  into  the  kitchen.  How  he 
may  have  prayed  to  the  blessed  Virgin,  in  that  old 
kitchen,  and  how  he  cried  and  laughed  by  turns,  I  never 
knew:  I  only  had  my  suspicions  from  after-appearances. 

Seating  myself  in  Frank's  immense  leather-backed 
chair,  which  inclines  to  whatever  angle  you  like,  I  now 
took  up  the  subject  of  matters  and  things  in  general. 
Growler  walked  off  to  the  coldest  place  he  could  find, 
and  the  cat,  after  dodging  sparks  before  the  fire,  sprang 
again  into  my  lap,  and  went  to  sleep. 

Out  of  the  south  window  I  could  look  over  a  wide 
sweep  of  country,  but  the  storm  now  fell  so  fast  and  fu 
rious  that  nothing  could  be  seen.  Very  soon,  looking 
out  the  window,  a  thousand  little  spirits  seemed  to  be 
surrounding  and  wrapping  me  in  some  subtle  influence, 
and  in  ten  minutes,  I'  suppose,  from  the  time  I  took  that 
chair,  I  was  fast  asleep.  The  unusual  excitement  was 
having  its  reaction ;  and  I  was  gone.  Nothing  else 
slept.  Not  the  wind.  Not  the  northeaster.  Not  the 
cat :  she  was  only  on  the  borders  of  that  land  ;  for  the 
moment  she  fancied  I  was  asleep,  she  came  up  and  took 


SINGING   "CHINA."  231 

a  scat  on  my  right  shoulder,  and  busied  herself  winking 
at  the  big  fire.  I  saw  it  all  through  the  glass  on  the 
mantel. 

And  now,  Professor,  if  you  ask  what  all  this  means, 
and  what  I  was  about,  I  could  not  have  told  you.  I 
had  not  planned  any  thing  definitely.  Perhaps  I  was 
now  getting  my  frolic  in  this  royal  nap  all  alone,  nearly, 
in  an  old  house,  and  a  storm  outside  that  was  perfectly 
pitiless  in  its  character.  What  greater  luxury  can  a 
man  have  than  rest,  when  it  is  contrasted  with  tumult, 
and  hurry,  and  fearful  imaginings  ?  What  more  exqui 
site  folding  in  of  the  golden  hours,  than  this  up  at 
Frank's,  so  utterly  beyond  the  chances  of  intrusion  ?  I 
suppose  the  key-note,  however,  was  in  that  sharp  wail  of 
the  wind  outside.  Let  me  get  away,  I  may  have  said, 
where  I  can  talk  a  little  with  that  chap.  From  earliest 
childhood  I  have  had  a  strange  liking  for  sad  and 
mournful  sounds.  They  are  a  kind  of  nutriment  to  me ; 
and  when  I  feel  happiest,  I  am  most  likely  to  break  out 
in  some  dismal  hymn,  which,  for  some  unaccountable 
reason,  has  for  me,  as  I  have  said,  this  strange  fascina 
tion.  But  right  in  the  very  climax  of  such  a  time,  my 
wife  will  come  up  and  beg  me  not  to  do  so  :  for,  strange 
to  say,  the  effect  upon  her  is  not  a  happy  one ;  and  Joy 
even  tosses  her  head  at  it.  It  is  evident  she  has  a  gentle 


232  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

contempt  for  that  kind  of  music.  I  had  attempted  one 
of  the  old  Methodist  tunes,  when  I  first  sat  clown, — being 
anxious  to  make  the  most  of  my  time, — but  failed,  and 
as  aforesaid,  napped  instead. 

It  was  more  than  an  hour  afcer  I  fell  asleep,  that 
Tim  came  in,  asking  what  I  would  have  for  dinner. 
"  Why,  bless  me,  Tim,"  said  I,  "  I've  only  just  break 
fasted."  "  You  breakfasted  very  late  then,  sir :  its  two 
o'clock,  and  will  be  dark  directly."  "  Tim,"  said  I,  "can 
you  get  me  a  bit  of  chicken,  that's  fat  and  hearty,  and 
not  too  old,  Tim,  broiled  gently,  and  just  a  little  brown  ?" 
"  That's  precisely  what  I  have  been  doing,  sir ;"  said  the 
old  man, — "for  I  remember  that  you  always  likes  a  broil." 
"And  Tim,"  said  I,  "is  there  ever  a  bottle  of  famous 
old  wine,  (ah,  sir,  never  fear,)  that  Mr.  Bryars  has  left 
in  some  dusty  corner,  (will  make  your  mouth  water,  sir,) 
or  may  be  in  some  cupboard,  or  possibly  in  the  garret, 
behind  the  north  chimney,  or  may  be  you  have  the 
key," — "  Sure,"  shouted  Tim,  who  was  nearly  out  of  pa 
tience, — "  I  can  find  ye  forty  of  them,  if  ye  like," — and 
disappeared  again  in  the  dark  passage.  lie  appeared 
again,  shortly,  with  a  white  apron,  and  directly  before 
the  great  fire  arranged  a  little  old-fashioned  table,  which 
might  have  been  a  large  stand,  except  that  it  had  legs 
like  tables.  Standing  for  a  moment  by  this  small  affair, 


SINGING    "CHINA."  233 

after  the  dinner  was  all  complete,  he  asked,  "Will  your 
honor  have  your  wine  now  ?" — and  uncorking  a  dusty 
bottle,  the  old  servant  departed  again. 

Dinner,  oh  Professor,  is  the  great  event,  eh  !  Not 
often  is  it  so  with  me :  but  for  some  reason,  the  little 
pullet  which  Tim  had  broiled  for  me,  had  an  unusual 
savor ;  or  was  it  that  choice  old  Burgundy,  which,  they 
say  can  never  be  brought  over  seas,  and  yet  here  it  was, 
sweet  as  nuts.  There  was  also  a  little  carafon  of  old 
port ;  and  cigars  I  had  found  in  a  drawer  of  Frank's 
secretary.  Ah !  what  would  T.  say,  what  would  Joy 
and  Tidy  say,  what  Avould  my  father  say,  at  the  sight 
of  this  broken  down  man  dining  in  such  Palais  Royal 
style  !  The  peculiar  thing  in  the  transaction  being,  you 
observe,  that  T.,  and  Joy,  and  Tidy,  were  not  there. 
Hurra  !  Hurr-rr-ah !  Ah,  Professor,  if  you  could  have 
heard  me  sing  "Jim  Crack  Corn,"  it  would  have 
done  your  heart  good.  I  began  with  "  Jim  Crack  Corn," 
and  "  Old  Uncle  Ned,"  as  being  upon  the  outer  borders 
of  those  sad  strains,  which  I  kept  as  bonnes  bouches,  and 
in  which  I  could  exhaust  myself  of  this  fatal  passion.  I 
was  engaged  in  Dundee,  when  Tim  came  in  and  found 
me  striding  solemnly  about  the  room,  while  Growler 
walked  slowly  up  and  down,  and  whenever  the  accent 
was  peculiarly  touching,  the  old  dog  howled,  for  a  mo- 


234  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

ment,  and  then  ceased  till  I  came  around  again  to  the 
same  spot. 

"  Now,  Tim,"  said  I,  pouring  him  a  glass  of  wine, 
"  we  will  drink  to  the  health  and  long  life  of  our  friends 
over  sea ;  and  you  shall  sing  me  an  ould  country 
song."  Tim,  having  already  laid  in  a  small  supply  of 
cider,  was  quite  ready ;  and  after  tossing  off  his  glass  of 
port,  he  embarked  in,  perhaps  the  most  dismal  and 
wind-shrieking  song  that  Ould  Ireland  ever  produced. 
It  was  positively  dreadful ;  and  I  directly  called  to  him 
to  stop  a  moment,  as  I  had  something  to  suggest. 
"  Tim,"  I  cried,  and  with  no  little  excitement,  "  can  you 
sing  China  ?"  (I  had  kept  "  China"  as  the  event  of  the 
day:  as  after  "China"  there  is  nothing,  absolutely 
nothing,  that  makes  any  approach  to  that  depth  of  de 
spair,  so  desirable  in  this  kind  of  music.)  "  Well,"  said 
Tim,  "  it's  likely  I  can  sing  it.  I'm  convanient  at  most 
of  those  tunes  of  yours.  Haven't  I  heard  you  and 
Master  Frank  singing  them,  all  alone  to  yourselves  ?" 

We  started,  therefore,  with  China,  myself  walking 
up  and  down,  and  rocking  to  and  fro  in  the  going-off 
spots,  while  Tim  threw  his  arms  about  like  a  madman, 
and  Growler  now  howled  continually.  Ah,  Professor, 
it  was  very  grand :  it  was  more,  it  was  glorious !  or,  as 
an  old  Connecticut  friend  of  mine  used  to  say,  "  grand, 


SINGING   "CHINA."  235 

glorious,  and  magnificent."  But,  in  the  very  midst  of 
it,  and  high  over  the  highest  reach  of  Tim's  voice,  was 
now  heard  another — sharp  and  sky-piercing,  and  now, 
as  we  stopped  to  listen  to  it — low,  and  dying  slowly 
away. 

"  Tim,"  said  I,  "  do  you  hear  that  ?  Is  any  one  up 
stairs,  or  in  the  garret,  or  may  be  down  cellar  ?" 

"  Niver  a  soul  in  the  house  but  us,  yer  honor" — and 
we  proceeded  again.  "  Why — should — ive — mourn — 
dc-par-ar-ted-da — "  and  again  rose  that  cry,  and  now  it 
said — if  it  said  any  thing — "  Zariar  !  Zariar !  Mr.  Pun- 
dison  /"  In  a  moment,  I  raised  one  of  the  south  win 
dows,  and  behold  in  the  distance,  oh  Professor,  behold, 
I  say — the  round  face  of  my  blessed  wife  just  above  the 
snow,  her  arms  hanging  upon  the  surface,  and  all  the  rest 
of  the  lady  entirely  gone  !  It  was  a  sight,  sir  !  Just  be 
hind  her  was  Joy,  leaning  back  in  the  snow,  and  laugh 
ing  her  eyes  out.  Nearer  Avas  Rover,  in  a  deep  hole, 
his  nose  seen  occasionally  above  it  as  he  struggled  to 
get  out ;  and  farther  off,  Pompey — who  was  entirely 
out  of  sight,  in  a  deep  cavity,  and  only  known  to  be 
there  by  his  barking  incessantly.  They  had  wandered 
a  little  from  the  way,  into  a  ditch  which  had  drifted  full 
of  soft  snow. 

I  jumped  through  the  window,  and  cautiously  ap- 


236  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

preaching  Mrs.  P.,  threw  my  arms  around  her,  and  cried 
out,  "  Give  me  a  kiss  for  good  morning."  Then  it  was, 
sir,  that  I  saw  Mrs.  P.  had  come  out  in  *  *  *  *,  This 
had  been  her  ruin.  She  had  dropped  immediately 
through  all  the  depths.  It  was  only  by  spreading  her 
arms,  that  Mrs.  Pundison  kept  herself  afloat. 

And  now,  sir,  shall  I  tell  you  how  we  escaped  from 
those  depths,  and  how  those  ladies  insisted  upon  tasting 
the  wine,  and  making  little  notes  and  memorandums 
(solemn  things,  sir,  to  a  husband)  of  what  had  been  go 
ing  on  ?  Under  the  circumstances,  not  more  glad  were 
they  than  I,  to  get  back  again  to  our  old  established 
home :  to  the  round  table,  and  the  curtains,  and  the 
hall-stove,  and  the  thermometers. 

T.  has  said,  since,  that  it  was  plain  the  wine  had  got 
in  my  head  ;  for,  immediately  after  tea,  I  had  gone  to 
sleep  in  my  chair,  and  did  not  wake  till  ten  o'clock : 
and,  besides,  it  was  years  since  I  had  kissed  her  in  the 
snow.  I  have  been  of  opinion  that  it  was  the  wind  that 
made  me  so  sleepy,  but  the  fact,  I  suppose,  is  not  to  be 
doubted.  As  I  awoke,  and  we  all  drew  a  little  closer  to 
the  fire — for  it  was  bitter  cold — T.  came  up,  and  in  that 
confiding  way  which  a  wife  so  well  understands,  asked 
me  to  say  what  it  was  that  took  me  up  to  Frank 
Bryars'.  "  Will  you  promise,"  I  said,  "  never  to  men- 


SINGING    "CHINA."  237 

tion  the  little  incident — never,  upon  pain  of  the  *  *  *  * 
and  boots  being  produced  ?  All  promised  ;  and  I  ex 
pounded  as  follows: 

You  knoAv,  my  children,  that  we  all  have  our  little 
ways  :  or,  rather,  our  little  ways  have  us  ;  and  we  know 
it  not.  We  are  guided  as  by  the  wind,  which  goeth 
where  it  listeth. 

I  tell  you,  very  solemnly,  that  when  I  started  this 
morning,  I  had  no  conception  of  any  special  act,  other 
than  to  go  up  to  Frank's  ;  but,  with  equal  solemnity,  I 
tell  you  that  I  believe  the  whole  motive — hidden  and 
concealed  away,  like  fine  gold — from  the  very  start,  all 
through  the  walk  in  the  snow,  all  through  the  house 
hold  arrangements,  through  dinner,  through  every  thing, 
up  to  that  piercing  scream  of  yours — was  to  sing  China  ! 

T.  smiled  faintly  as  I  said  this ;  and  Joy  was  on 
the  verge  of  a  laugh,  which  I  checked  instantly  with  a 
severe  look  ;  and  immediately  retired  for  the  night. 

"  Zarry  dear,"  said  Mrs.  P.  just  as  I  was  going  to 
sleep,  "  did  you  get  through  singing  China  T"1  "  My  dear 
wife,"  said  I,  "  I  have  exhausted  China  for  six  months 
to  come."  Z.  P. 


XIV. 


,  1851. 


HAPPILY  arrived  are  we,  ray  laughing  Professor,  and  I 
joy  to  say, — stouter  and  better  than  we  have  been  for 
many  a  day.  We  have  come  up  into  the  New-Year 
with  great  force.  Every  thing  round  about  is  so  snug 
and  wintry.  Not  less  than  two  feet  of  snow  all  over 
this  great  state,  and  upward  extending — it  is  supposed 
— to  the  North  Pole  itself.  Every  day  come  in  reports 
of  trains  caught  fast  in  the  drifts  ;  and  the  great  South 
ern  Mail  comes  once  a  week,  and  then,  with  stacks  upon 
stacks  of  papers  and  letters.  Nobody  travels.  Nobody 
thinks  of  it.  But  every  body  looks  out  the  window  to 
see  the  great  drifts  all  over  the  fences ;  and  the  people 
breaking  road,  with  horses,  and  oxen,  and  drags,  what 
time, — that  is  to  say, — the  weather  will  permit ;  for 


NEW-YEAR'S   DAY.  239 

mostly  we  are  down  to  the  Great  Belshazzar,  from  one 
week  to  another. 

As  I  was  saying, — this  state  of  things,  for  a  high  up- 
country  latitude,  is  especially  pleasant.  It  is  nice  to  be 
blocked  in,  safe  from  all  intrusion :  to  have  great  fires 
all  to  ourselves ;  and  read  stories  of  the  Greenlanders 
and  the  wonders  of  the  Arctics.  So  charmingly  as  the 
days  and  the  long  nights  interchange,  so  smoothly,  and 
all  as  in  one  continuous  dream,  if  any  man, — not  my 
most  particular  friend, — should  now  make  his  appear 
ance,  I  should  look  upon  him  more  or  less*  as  a  burglar. 
I  should  be  willing  to  bargain  with  him,  I  suspect,  to 
come  in  the  night  instead  and  carry  off  what  silver 
spoons  he  could  find,  if  so  be  he  did  it  quietly,  and  did 
not  disturb  my  dreams.  If  I  saw  him  at  the  garden 
gate,  for  instance,  I  would  send  Bob  out  to  him  with 
that  proposition.  He  would  be  a  little  shocked,  per 
haps,  but  shocks,  you  know,  have  the  advantage  of  a 
pleasant  reaction. 

Or  we  might  make  one  or  two  exceptions.  I  would 
say  to  Bob, — "  If  it's  Hazelbush,  or  Aps  Appleby,  let  them 
come  in ;  but  warn  them  not  to  stamp  too  hard,  or  come 
in  coughing  and  making  a  great  noise,  as  I  am  in  a 
dream  to-day,  and  must  not  be  waked  suddenly." 

But  yesterday  was   an   exception.     Yesterday  was 


240  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

open  doors.  Any  body  and  every  body  whosoever  was 
welcome  to  come  and  drink  coffee  and  eat  pound-cake, 
to  their  stomachs'  content.  With  that  view,  a  great 
wood-fire  was  made  in  the  parlor,  at  an  early  hour,  and 
kept  up  unblushingly  through  the  day.  T.  and  Joy  and 
Tidy  were  to  sit  there  all  day,  and  pretend  to  be  occu 
pied  with  books,  while  in  fact,  they  were  half  the  time 
spying  out  the  windows  to  see  who  was  coming.  I  be 
gan  the  day,  myself,  with  high  consideration.  It  was 
scarcely  day-light  when  I  gave  T.  a  little  shake,  and 
wished  her  a  Happy  New- Year." 

I  had  quite  a  nap  after  that,  and  then  astonished 
'Joy  and  Tidy  in  the  same  way.  This  not  being  fully 
satisfactory,  however,  I  resolved  upon  a  kind  of  April 
game;  and  while  dressing  in  a  little  curtained-room 
over  the  hall,  and  which  is  accessible  by  voice  to  all 
parts  of  the  house, — called  to  T.,  who  was  preparing 
breakfast.  "  Little  T.,"  said  I,  quite  loud,— and  little  T. 
came  running  to  the  hall  stairs, — "  what  is  it,  dear  ?" 

"  Happy  New- Year !"  was  the  important  intelligence, 
to  which  I  heard  a  faint  "  oh  !"  and  a  little  laugh  as  of 
one  at  the  bottom  of  a  well. 

Before  I  had  left  my  little  one-windowed  room,  the 
"  New- Year,"  forgotten  for  the  moment,  and  occupied 
as  is  not  unusual  at  such  times,  with  a  stave  out  of  Old 


NEW-YEAU'S   DAY.  241 

Hundred,  or  a  chant,  or  an  old  song,  I  hoard  my  wife 
calling  to  me  from  some  quarter,  and  supposed  break 
fast  was  ready.  "  Zariah,"  said  that  lady,  "  Zarry  dear," 
— "  What"  said  I,  quite  loudly.  "  Happy  New- Year :" 
and  then  a  laugh,  which  rang  through  all  the  house, 
and  to  which  Joy  and  Tidy  added  with  all  their  might. 
About  this  time,  Little  Gem  broke  in  at  the  front  door, 
all  covered  with  snow,  shouting  at  the  top  of  her  voice, 
'Happy  New- Year  to  one  and  all!  Where's  Uncle 
Zach  ?  Uncle  Zach,  happy  New- Year !"  and  away  she 
flew,  crying  out,  "  I  spoke  first." 

We  breakfasted.  After  a  while  came  a  few  strag 
glers,  and  in  due  time  we  dined :  having  no  partiality 
for  chicken-salad  and  sour  wine.  But  I  shall  not  de 
scribe  the  day  to  you.  The  sport  was  in  dodging  the 
infliction  of  that "  Happy  New- Year :"  and  usually,  when 
any  one  was  addressed,  the  party  very  wisely  declined 
to  look  or  reply  to  it,  in  any  manner,  for  fear  of  the  ap 
plication.  At  last  came  night  and  bed-time.  The  game 
seemed  to  be  used  up,  and  we  were  rather  tired  of  it. 
In  fact,  it  had  become  distressingly  common.  But  just 
before  going  to  sleep,  I  turned  to  Mrs.  P.  suddenly,  as 
though  I  had  a  very  bright  thought.  "  Little  T.,"  said  I, 
— "  I'll  tell  you  one  thing," — and  waited  a  moment. 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ?"  said  T.,  rousing  herself. 
11 


242  UP-COUNTEY    LETTERS 

"  Happy  New- Year  !" 

<(0h  my  !"  said  T.,  "but  I'll  tell  you  what,  Zany." 
"  What  ?"  said  I. 

"  Happy  New- Year  !"  and  so  laughing  ourselves  to 
sleep,  New- Year's  Day  was  over. 

Addio,  /.  P. 


XV. 


January  15,  1851. 

You  ask  me,  Professor,  the  reason  of  the  long  lapse  in 
our  correspondence,  and  kindly  inquire  if  I  am  too  ill 
to  write.  It  would  have  made  you  blush,  sir,  to  have 
heard  me  laugh,  when  I  read  that  tender  inquiry.  Why, 
my  unsophisticated  Professor,  I  am  uproariously  well. 
That's  the  reason,  sir,  of  my  long  silence,  and  a  good 
enough  reason,  as  it  seems  to  me.  Do  you  suppose,  sir, 
that  a  man  whose  blood  has  come  back  to  him,  who 
wakes  in  the  morning  with  a  shout,  who  sleeps  eight 
hours  without  winking,  who  has  legs  and  arms,  eyes 
and  ears,  and  the  other  free  royalties  of  a  man,  and 
lives  in  a  world  of  sunshine,  and  air,  and  dogs,  and  all 
out-door  glorifications,  —  I  say,  sir,  do  you  expect  this 
man  will  be  content  to  spin  out  his  mornings  in  sending 
you  small  up-country  moralities  and  fiddle-de-dees  ? 


244  UP-COUNTRY    LETTEKS. 

, 
And  now,  sir,  when  these  great  creatures  of  God,— 

the  stars  and  worlds  of  tho  Universe, — are  whirling  on 
in  their  charming  maze  of  motion;  and  everything  that 
He,  has  made, — lives  and  moves, — changes  and  gets  on 
in  some  fashion  of  travel, — and  is  not  now  what  it  was 
yesterday :  in  these  days,  sir,  of  steam,  and  rail,  and 
telegraph,  do  you  suppose, — is  it  to  be  supposed, — that 
a  man,  look  you,  is  to  take  no  part  in  these  prodigious 
on-goings  and  over-goings  ?  that  a  man  is  not  to  grow 
so  much  as  a  hickory  sapling ! — is  not,  sir,  to  open  his 
arms  to  the  world ! — to  make  his  mark  ! — to  expand — 
to  enlarge  himself — to  enlarge  the  world — to  ADD,  as  it 
were,  to  the  universe  of  things  ?  Do  you  not  know, 
sir,  that — nolens  volens — we  travel  not  less  than  24,000 
miles  every  day  of  our  lives  ?  That  a  ray  of  light  start 
ing  from  one  of  the  fixed  stars,  has,  perhaps,  not  yet 
arrived  ?  That  if  you  were  now  shot  out  of  a  bomb,  it 
would  take,  at  a  Paixhan  rate  of  motion,  trintillions  of 
years  before  you  would  reach  the  first  landing-place  out 
side  our  solar  system, — that  it  begins  to  be  suspected, 
sir,  that  what  we  have  seen  of  the  uinverse  is — nothing ; 
nothing,  sir, — only  a  point,  as  it  were,  and  that  in  re 
gard  to  what  we  do  see,  we  know,  as  it  were,  nothing, 
absolutely  nothing,  except  the  prodigious  consciousness, 
sir,  of  knowing  nothing — and  in  this  tremendous  state 


PROTEST.  245 

of  things,  am  I,  sir,  to  shut  my  mouth,  and  leave  every 
thing  as  it  happens  ?  to  play  at  riddles  and  conun 
drums  in  this  foolish  up-country,  when  there  is  work, 
work,  work,  look  you,  and  half  the  millions  of  the  earth 
crazy,  or  mad,  or  drunk,  and  reeling,  reeling  down  into 
the  misty  Future,  where  as  yet,  comes  not  the  morning, 
but  all  lies  shadowy  and  dim ! 

No,  sir,  this  individual  is  himself  again.     Speak  to 
every  body  to  that   effect.     Say,  sir,  that  Z.  P.  is  on 
hand,  and  may  be  counted  upon  from  this  time. 
In  short, 

Yours,  Z.  P. 


XVI. 


Pun.  House,  Up-C.,  Feb.  '51. 

ALL  in  a  jingle  to-day,  sir,  jingle,  jangle,  jam  !  Exuber 
ance  of  health.  Fullness  of  blood.  Bad.  Very  bad. 
Only  the  word  lad  is  feeble.  But  all  words  are  tame — 
good  for  nothing.  All  human  language  is  artificial  and 
vague.  BEASTS  have  a  way  of  talking.  How  they 
scream  and  roar,  upon  occasion.  I'm  a  beast  to-day — 
a  howling  hyena — a  black  bear. 

It's  the  power  that's  in  me — the  vim.  Now  is  the 
time,  if  I  had  something  to  do,  to  do  it.  In  regard  to 
that,  however,  I  once  wrote  (it's  in  a  book  of  morals, 
sir,  which  I  am  preparing,  when  my  health  is  sufficiently 
bad)  that  a  man  who  could  not  find  abundant  chances 
of  doing  good  in  this  world,  must  be  in  a  very  small 
corner.  Easy  to  preach. 


BUM.  247 

Bah! 

Bah,  is  pretty  good,  but  I'll  show  you  something. 

Biz — z — z — z ! 

Feeble,  but  it  expresses  a  little. 

After  all  bah  is  not  bad,  eh  ?  Of  course  not :  it  is 
bah! 

But  we  don't  stop  here,  sir :  let  us  see,  now ;  biz, 
buz,  boz,  bah.  Biz — buz,  biz — bah  (pshaw  !)  Bum  ! 

There  you  have  it,  sir ;  that  hits  the  mark. 

But  then  again,  Biz — bum  ?    Bah — bum  3 

No.    BUM  ! 

Only  it's  not  legitimate — not  in  the  dictionary. 

However,  what  is  Webster?  There  is  no  longer 
any  invention.  There  is  nothing,  nothing  new  under 
the  sun  ;  and  I  doubt  if  there  is  any  sun,  or  moon,  or 
stars.  All  imagination. 

Ah,  what  a  day  we  have  had,  howling,  blowing, 
snow-squalling.  I'm  going  to  bed,  but  don't  expect  to 
sleep  a  wink.  I  shall  wink,  however  :  wink,  and  wink, 
all  night.  Do  nothing  else.  Devils  will  be  about,  and 
processions  of  little  people  six  inches  high.  I  know 
them.  See  them  often.  All  making  faces  and  doing 
the  silliest  things.  All  gaping,  sneezing,  blowing  in 
tin-horns,  ringing  bells — SCAT  ! 

Oh,  my  dear  stand-by,  my  prop,  my  great  moun- 


248  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS.  - 

tain,  where  are  you  ?  I'm  coming  to  a  crisis.  Only 
for  the  smell,  now,  I  should  smash  that  lamp  all  to  frit 
ters.  Til  pull  T.'s  hair,  handsful.  What  will  she  do  ? 
She  will  cry  "  Fire — murder,"  and  so  forth. 

Oh,  come  to  me,  my  great  friend,  my  quondam, 
come,  come,  come  quick ;  for  every  thing  is  wrong. 

Bum,  however,  is  a  treasure :  great,  isn't  it  ? 

Bim  also,  and,  perhaps, Bam. 

Ah,  no — there's  nothing  in  the  world :  nothing, 
nothing,  nothing.  Nothing,  I  say,  but  this  abominable, 
devil-full,  paltry,  weak,  crazy,  and  all-horrid Z.  P. ! ! 


XVII. 


January  25th,  1851. 

IT  is  astonishing,  my  dear  Professor,  how  quickly  every 
thing  wears  out.  Health,  one  would  say,  is  a  very  grand 
thing. 

Sir  —  it  is  a  grand  humbug  !  Reckless,  torn-boyish, 
turbulent  :  careless  of  others,  and  thoughtful  of  nothing 
but  the  crazy  dance  of  its  own  blood. 

I  shudder,  already,  at  the  manner  I  have  been  fling 
ing  about.  Why,  sir,  I  was  as  dogmatical  as  the  Pope 
of  Eome.  My  people  became  much  alarmed,  as  you 
may  suppose  ;  and,  in  short,  I  am  only  now  partially 
restored,  by  a  smart  attack  of  neuralgia  ;  which  is  in 
time,  we  hope,  to  prevent  further  calamity. 

Looking  back  upon  the  few  past  weeks,  I  ask  my 
self,  is  it  possible  that  I  have  been  eating  sausage,  tur 
key,  corned  beef,  tongue,  head-cheese,  and  such-like  all- 
11* 


250  Up-CouNTBY  LETTERS. 

fatty  and  nightmare  preparations  ?  Is  it  a  fiction,  that 
on  one  demented  day,  I  swallowed  a  glass  of  sour 
poison  called  wine  ?  and  then  undertook  a  cigar  !  And 
can  a  man  be  said  to  have  his  reason  when  he  does  such 
things  ?  I  suspect  not.  I  think  not.  I  am  sure  he  has 
not. 

But  there  is  another  consideration  which,  though  it 
makes  me  blush  a  little,  truth  requires  that  I  should 
mention.  I  was  not  only  getting  common,  but  I  was 
becoming  responsible.  Before,  while  invalid,  I  was  set 
apart :  I  could  go  to  sleep,  right  before  people.  I  could 
be — and  here  allow  me  to  blush — I  could  be  slightly 

cr ,  say  wayward  and  peculiar,  because  I  was  an 

invalid.  It  was  expected  of  me  that  I  would  snooze, 
and  dream,  and  tell  my  dream  on  waking,  and  no  one 
should  smile  at  my  simplicity,  but  rather  make  much 
of  it,  and  say  how  curious  it  was,  and  how  wonderful. 
No  one  else — it  was  said — could  dream  so :  no  one  ever 
did  :  no  one  ever  could ! 

But,  in  health,  I  was  expected  to  do  things.  I  was 
elected  vestry-man.  I  was  made  chairman  of  a  com 
mittee.  I  was  requested  to  address  the Society  ! 

Ah,  Professor,  I  can't  afford  to  be  well.  It  is  too 
much  for  me.  It  is  crushing.  My  shoulders  are  not 
built  for  it.  Let  me  grumble  again,  I  say,  and  tumble 


VULGARITY    OF    HEALTH.  251 

o'  nights.  What's  the  use  of  sleeping  all  night,  and 
having  no  bouts  with  the  rheumatism — no  trembling 
submissions  to  some  racking  headache  ?  What  is 
morning,  if  you  please,  to  one  who  goes  to  bed  and  gets 
up  and  remembers  nothing  between  ?  It  is  not  morn 
ing  :  it  is  only  the  next  event  after  evening. 

And,  Professor,  is  it  uncharitable — is  it  ungracious 
in  me — to  hold  out  the  possible  idea  that  there  is  in 
high  health,  a  certain  vulgar — eh  ?  a  something — that 
is  to  say,  do  you  not  perceive  that  it  is  peculiarly — eh  ? 
(the  commonness  of  it  is,  of  course,  very  evident,  but) 
what  I  mean  is  a  certain  indefinable — in  fine,  do  you 
consider  it  high-bred  ? 

These  thoughts  will  engage  me  occasionally,  and  I 
don't  scruple,  between  ourselves,  to  assert  the  essential 
vulgarity  of  -unmitigated  health.  No  gentleman,  sir,  is 
ever  extravagantly  well. 

I  look  back  upon  myself,  sir,  during  those  ebullient 
weeks,  as  upon  an  animal — a  baboon !  a  wandering 
nightmare  !  an  embodied  cruelty,  with  a  heart  like  the 
nether  mill-stone. 

I  said,  or  was  about  to  say,  somewhere  in  this  letter, 
that  an  old  neuralgic  friend  had  called  lately  upon  me, 
and,  as  you  may  suppose,  we  have  talked  up  these  things 
considerably.  Perhaps  the  tone  of  my  remarks  may  be 


252  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

due,  in  some  distant  way,  to  his  suggestions.  My  friend 
is  rather  practical  in  his  jokes ;  but  living  so  retired  as 
we  do,  one  becomes,  no  doubt,  unreasonably  fastidious, 
and  we  must  never  judge  too  quickly,  Professor,  for  the 
•  world  is  large  and  various.  Yours,  Z.  P. 


XVIII. 


Pundison  House,  ITp-Country,  ) 
Jan.  aotli,  1851.  ) 

I  MENTIONED  the  other  day,  sir,  that  an  acquaintance 
Lad  called  to  advise  me  a  little  upon  matters  of  diet,  and 
so  forth  ;  and  it's  not  unlikely  I  expressed  myself  rather 
obliged,  than  otherwise,  for  his  kindness.  But  you  will 
believe  me,  sir,  that  I  did  not  expect  the  old  fellow  was 
going  to  stay  all  winter  ;  or  that  his  conversation  was 
so  limited,  that  he  could  speak  of  nothing  but  sausage 
and  black  tea. 

lie  has  a  way  of  giving  me  a  poke  under  the  fifth 
rib  —  a  spot  where  I  am  always  shy  of  pokes  —  and  then 
singing  out  at  the  top  of  his  voice  —  "  Sausage  !"  — 
"  Black  Tea  !  —  "  Buckwheat  cakes  !"  almost  choking 
himself  with  some  joke  which  he  pretends  to  see  in  that 
connection. 

If  I  ask  him  to  explain,  he  gives  me  a  long  lecture 


254  UP-COUNTRY  LETTERS. 

upon  all  kinds  of  dissipation,  going  over,  my  dear  Pro 
fessor,  the  most  hackneyed  notions  about  diet  and  exer 
cise  ;  and  actually  pretending  that  I  ought  to  live  on 
bread  and  potatoes.  He  pokes  me  almost  incessantly. 
If  I  get  up  to  walk ;  if  I  bend  over  slightly,  as  at  thia 
writing ;  if  I  smell  at  a  sausage,  or  take  in  the  merest 
whiff  of  the  ambrosia  of  Souchong ;  if  I  sneeze,  cough, 
laugh,  or  take  a  long  breath,  he  gives  me  the  inevitable 
poke — enough  to  take  a  man's  life  away — and  flings  at 
me,  as  aforesaid,  with  an  insufferable  twang — those  dis 
mal  stupidities. 

I  can  hardly  say  when  I  am  rid  of  him.  He  lodges 
with  us,  but  doesn't  appear  to  care  about  sleeping.  He 
is  up  usually  till  midnight  toasting  his  feet,  and  sipping 
hot  punch  ;  and  I  doubt  if  he  sleeps  more  than  an  hour 
in  all  night.  If  I  wake  in  the  night  (and  I  do,  now, 
every  hour  or  so,  until  morning),  I  am  sure  to  see  my 
friend  standing  close  by  the  bed,  in  night-cap  and  dress 
ing-gown,  with  a  candle  in  his  hand,  laughing  immode 
rately.  As  soon  as  he  gets  breath,  he  remarks — "  You 
must  have  observed,  Mr.  Pundison  (poke) — I  say,  sir, 
you  must  have  suspected,  at  least  (poke) — in  fact,  you 
are  probably  pretty  well  satisfied,  now,  that  sausages 
(poke)  and  the  like,  are  not  suitable  to  a  man  of  your 
peculiar  idiosyncracies."  Poke — poke — poke — and  the 


NEURALGIA.  265 

fellow  goes  on  saying  the  most  stupid  things  imaginable. 
I  close  my  eyes,  and  pretend  not  to  hear.  If  I  was  to 
say  a  word,  I  should  wake  Mrs.  P.,  and  I  don't  care  to 
get  her  mixed  up  in  these  controversies. 

In  fact,  she  rather  sides  with  the  old  villain ;  though 
she  confesses  that  he  is  very  rude. 

I  sleep,  however,  after  a  fashion,  and  when  morning 
conies,  I  say  to  myself — Just  wait  till  I'm  dressed,  and 
observe  what  a  peculiarly  interesting  kind  of  a  thrashing 
I  shall  give  the  old  scamp. 

I  proceed  to  bathe,  and  get  on  veiy  well  until  in 
dressing,  just  as  I  get  my  left  leg  half-way  through  my 
trowsers,  the  villian  steals  in,  and  before  I  suspect  that 
he's  about,  he  gives  me  the  usual  stab  ;  and,  of  course, 
with  his  usual  horrid  exclamations.  Can  you  imagine 
any  thing  more  intensely  inane  ? 

I  suppose,  however,  that  I  stand  there  nearly  five 
minutes,  with  one  leg  out,  and  one  leg  in,  before  I  get 
over  that  prodigious  shock.  Coming  down  to  breakfast, 
we  find  him  already  at  the  table,  stuffing  himself  with 
fried  pork,  tripe,  and  such-like  delicacies ;  and  drinking 
bowl  after  bowl  of  strong  coffee  or  tea.  "Excellent  for 
me,"  he  says,  "  but  for  you,  sir,  pizon  !  You  must  have 
perceived" — and  he  goes  on  with  his  string  of  fiddle- 
faddle,  to  which  I  give  an  air  of  listening  and  under- 


25G  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

standing,  for  fear  of  his  raising  his  voice  to  an  unendura 
ble  pitch ;  for  another  of  his  absurd  notions  is,  that  I 
am  a  little  hard  of  hearing.  Finding  that  he  dreads 
water,  I  am  discovering  a  way  to  dodge  him.  He  never 
approaches  ine  when  I  am  bathing;  and  I  find  an 
entirely  safe  retreat  in  my  sitz-bath. 

As  a  position  of  defence,  the  sitz-bath  has  evident 
advantages :  and  I  have  always  considered  a  man  in 
that  doubled-up  position,  as,  in  fact,  a  kind  of  battery ; 
a  sort  of  fortification !  I  shouldn't  like  to  attack  a  man 
in  a  sitz-bath. 

Seated  in  a  foot  and  a  half  of  water,  and  surrounded 
with  blankets,  representing  something  like  the  figure  of 
a  truncated  cone,  I  laugh  at  the  old  fellow,  and  call  him 
ah1  the  hard  names  I  can  think  of.  But  nothing  avails 
to  drive  him  out  of  the  house.  In  a  few  hours  he  is 
about  again,  and  as  lively  as  ever. 

Well,  Professor,  the  winter  is  going,  and  the  old 
sausage-man  can't  live  for  ever.  His  day  is  fixed.  For 
now,  directly,  when  the  frost  goes  out  of  the  ground,  and 
the  wind  comes  up  out  of  the  south,  and  the  ice  goes 
out  of  the  rivers,  and  the  summer  appears  on  the  hori 
zon,  and  the  grasses  spring  up  in  the  meadows,  and  all 
the  little  flo'wers  get  ready  to  blossom : — then,  I  say, 
this,  my  old  crony,  will  have  dwindled  away.  I  shall 


NEURALGIA.  25*7 

smile  to  see  how  thia  he  is ;  how  lantern-jawed :  and 
some  morning  brighter  than  usual,  too  bright  in  fact  for 
the  old  grumbler  to  endure,  he  will  say  good-bye,  and 
take  his  last  trampoose. 

In  this  hope,  sir,  I  live  and  continue, 

Yours,        Z.  P. 


XIX. 


Up-Country,  February,  1851. 

THE  winter  holds  tenaciously.  Many  as  have  been  our 
cold  days,  they  still  come.  This  morning,  at  6  o'clock, 
the  thermometer,  as  reported  by  Bob,  whom  my  father 
has  trained  thoroughly  at  making  the  observations, 
stood  at  0-5°,  which  is  to  say,  five  times  worse  than 
nothing  ;  and  now,  at  4  o'clock,  p.  M.  is  at  0-2°. 

On  such  days,  you  may  suppose  we  do  not  adventure 
into  the  outer  world.  If  it  happens  to  be  Saturday,  as 
is  the  case  to-day,  we  merely  finish  the  week.  Odds  and 
ends  are  picked  up  ;  and  a  little  extra  airing  and  dusting, 
are  I  believe  proper,  —  though  I  never  witness  such  things, 
—  and  by  noon  the  day  becomes  holiday. 

Pedlers  and  clockmenders  happening  around  at  such 
a  time  find  a  harvest.  So  it  happened,  this  morning, 
that  our  great  kitchen-clock,  having  for  weeks  past 


THE    OLD   CLOCK.  259 

pointed  to  half  past  eleven,  we  were  very  glad  to  see 
the  clock-man  make  his  appearance. 

Down  came  the  great  cap,  the  house  or  shell  cover 
ing  the  brains ;  and  little  by  little  the  wheels  and  cranks 
came  out,  and  were  dusted  and  oiled  and  readjusted, 
and  at  last  put  up  again,  and  the  work  completed. 
Once  more  was  heard  the  inevitable  tick-tick-tick,  the 
little  purr  just  before  striking,  and  then  came  the 
"  twelve  great  shocks  of  sound."  It  was  rich. 

The  man  went  his  way,  his  white  breath  following 
after  in  the  frosty  air,  and  my  father  dined  and  took  up 
his  morning  papers.  Kover  came  down  from  the  sofa, 
where  he  had  been  coiled  all  the  morning  (a  sofa  which 
Mrs.  P.  remarks  to  me  at  this  moment  has  been  twice 
covered  to  hide  the  pawings  of  that  dog  in  making  his 
imaginary  soft  spots  for  a  night's  rest) ;  Rover  came 
down,  ate  a  bone  or  two,  and  put  his  two  paws  out  on 
the  hearth,  and  appeared  to  doze  gently  before  the  im 
mense  fire.  Pompey  did  the  same,  and  all  was  silent 
and  serene.  My  father  read  his  paper  to  page  No.  3, 
when  his  hat  canted  back,  his  spectacles  slid  down 
slightly,  and  he  slept.  A  little  while  afterwards,  while 
sitting  in  our  room,  I  was  surprised  by  a  striking  of  the 
great  clock,  which  was  one  of  the  most  wonderful  per 
formances  perhaps  you  ever  heard.  How  many  times 


260  UP-COUNTRY  LETTERS. 

it  struck,  nobody  will  ever  know.  It  was  proper  for  it 
to  strike  three,  but  that,  sir,  would  be  but  a  small  frac 
tion  of  its  performance  at  this  time.  When  I  went  out 
I  found  my  father  looking  at  it  over  his  spectacles,  with 
unwonted  severity  of  countenance,  the  clock  being  still 
in  full  blast,  and  no  signs  of  coming  to  a  conclusion. 
My  father  turned  to  me,  and  remarked  with  great  com 
posure,  that  he  had  counted  twenty-five,  and  was  too 
tired  to  go  on.  I  replied  that  it  was  probably  making  up 
for  lost  time,  it  not  having  struck  at  all  for  some  weeks. 
My  father  took  no  notice  of  the  observation,  but  imme 
diately  took  up  his  paper,  and  was  all  absorbed  in  page 
No.  4.  When  I  left  the  room,  it  appeared  to  have  a  few 
more  of  the  same  sort  left,  and  was  bringing  them  out 
with  great  spirit  and  precision.  The  result  will  doubtless 
be  that  I  shall  have  to  look  to  the  old  clock  myself.  I 
used  to  manage  it,  and  I  think  it  would  be  very  strange 
if  I  couldn't  keep  it  from  such  mere  extravagances,  which 
are  so  highly  unbecoming  to  a  clock  of  its  years  and 
dignity. 

Twenty-five  o'clock  will  never  do,  Professor,  even  in 
these  fast  days  of  this  nineteenth  century.  I  was  not 
unhappy  at  its  being  continually  half-past  eleven.  There 
was  a  repose  in  those  hands,  pointing  always  to  the  same 
hour,  that  pleased  me.  Its  suggestion  was  of  rest  and 


THE    OLD    CLOCK.  261 

peace,  and  a  sublime  indifference  to  the  great  on-goings 
of  the  world.  From  this  state  of  quiet  and  gentlemanly 
composure,  to  rush  at  once  into  twenty-five  o'clock,  indi 
cates  a  sad  state  of  things,  and  suggests  that  it  will  soon 
be  impossible  for  the  old  clock  to  ever  again  get  cleverly 
and  properly  beyond  the  half-past  eleven.  And  we  must 
all  come  to  that  soon,  Professor.  It  will  soon  be  half- 
past  eleven  with  us,  and  clock-time  will  be  over. 

The  day  wears  on,  sharp  and  keen  as  ever ;  the  mer 
cury  still  2  below,  and  what  is  curious,  in  such  an  ex 
treme  of  cold,  a  fine  snow  is  falling  through  the  cloud 
ed  atmosphere,  but  slowly  and  sparsely.  Mrs.  P. 
sits  straight  before  the  fire,  her  hair  above  her  ears 
(it  being  Saturday,)  singing  and  looking  in  the  bright 
fire.  Joy  is  close  by  behind  a  screen, — with  her  feet 
going  through  to  the  blaze — sewing,  and  paying  no  at 
tention  at  all  to  Mrs,  P.,  while  Tidy  is  rocking  gently 
in  the  great  scarlet  rocker,  weaving  patiently  by  little 
and  by  little,  a  strange  tissue  of  gold  and  silver,  and  is 
alike  unconscious  of  us  all. 

What  my  wife  is  singing  is  beyond  any  ordinary 
conjecture.  Nobody  knows,  and  I  doubt  if  she  knows 
herself,  or  thinks  at  all  about  it.  Very  straight  she  sits, 
and  sings — now  up,  now  down,  and  looks  and  looks  into 
the  blazing  fire :  and  so,  oh  Professor,  goes  this  February 


262  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

day ;  queer  and  odd,  no  doubt,  but  it  carries  us  on  all 
the  same.  Whatever  the  old  clock  may  do,  we  make 
no  pause.  Addio,  Z.  P. 


XX. 


Up-Counlry,  February. 

As  I  have  betimes  remarked  to  you,  Professor,  —  you  are 
not  to  know  all  tilings.  Neither  am  I.  But  some 
things  are  permitted,  and  upon  the  margin  of  these  — 
the  known  and  absolute  —  we  can  make  figures  and  sug 
gestions,  outlining  the  future,  as  by  a  kind  of  careless 
inspiration. 

And,  fortunately,  it  is  not  so  pleasant  to  know  as 
to  guess.  To  have  one  truth  —  what  is  it  but  to  guess 
and  grasp  at  another,  and  another,  and  another  ?  Is 
there  any  absolute  rest  ?  Is  there  any  maximum  of  ac 
quisition,  beyond  which  is  no  guessing  ? 

Tidy,  who  is  lying  asleep  in  the  great  rocker,  seems 
to  have  reached  that  maximum.  At  the  first  glance, 
she  looks  a  picture  of  rest  and  peace.  But  look  closer, 
and  you  perceive  a  flush  upon  her  face,  and  one  thin 


2G4  UP-COUNTRY  LETTERS. 

lock  of  hair  that  has   escaped,  glistens   as  with  late 
tears. 

She  has  seemed  very  happy  all  day.  In  one  hand 
is  clasped  lightly,  a  note, — doubtless  from  Frank, — and 
from  within  is  seen  something  gold-rimmed,  like  a  locket. 
Only  for  this  carelessness  of  sleep,  I  never  should  have 
seen  it 

"  The  lady  sleeps !    Oh  may  her  sleep, 
As  it  is  lasting,  so  be  deep !" 

Some  days  since  we  were  all  discussing  Frank,  and 
with  that  perverse  ingenuity  which  we  all  sometimes 
have,  T.  and  Joy  had  been  diligently  hard  upon  him, 
and  I  equally  sharp  in  his  defence.  I  could  have  said 
the  same  things,  but  I  would  not  listen  to  the  same  from 
another.  Tidy,  during  the  discussion,  had  said  nothing, 
but  the  needles  which  she  was  using  flashed  like  a 
weaver's  shuttle. 

By  and  by,  we  were  left  alone,  and  I  had  gone  down 
into  that  silent  land  which  I  tell  you  so  much  about, 
for  my  after-dinner  travel,  when  suddenly  I  felt  the  fan 
ning,  as  of  warm  air  upon  my  forehead,  and  the  soft 
touch  of  lips.  Opening  my  eyes  slowly,  I  was  just  in 
time  to  see  the  fading  outline  of  Tidy,  stealing  away 
quickly  to  her  room.  It  was  her  vote. 


TIDY.  265 

And  now  as  she  sleeps,  I  could  win  back  my  gloves. 
But  I  will  do  something  better.  I  will  pull  this  tuft  of 
lace  carelessly  over  the  locket,  and  so,  waking  suddenly, 
as  she  will  soon,  she  will  not  be  shocked  with  the  fear 
that  I  have  discovered  her  secret. 

"  The  lady  sleeps !    Oh  may  her  sleep, 
As  it  is  gentle,  so  be  deep  ! 
Heaven  have  her  in  its  sacred  keep !" 

But  hush ! — she  is  waking.  What  does  she  say  ? 
she  speaks  so  low,  and  I  don't  like  to  listen,  for  she  is 
talking  to  Frank.  She  sees  nothing  as  yet,  although 
her  eyelids  are  open :  her  voice  is  low  and  faint,  almost 
to  a  whisper. 

Mr.  Pundison  laughs  loudly  and  sings  a  little  song. 

And  now — slowly — she  wakens,  and  putting  back 
her  hair,  says, — still  dreaming, — "  Eh  ?  Who  is  it  ? 
Who?  Who?" 

"  It  is  Mr.  Pundison,  or  Z.  Pundison,  Esq." 

"  Mr.  Pundison !"  she  answers,  looking  at  me  in  a 
\vondering  way,  "  Mr.  Z.  Pundison  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  is  to  say,  it  is  I — and  what  has  Tidy 
to  say  ?" 

"  Oh  nothing,"  she  says,  quickly ;  a  swift  flush,  like 
an  aurora  mantling  her  face :  "  Nothing," — looking  out 


260  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

the  window  in  a  long  steady  gaze, — "  nothing  at  all, — 
it  was  a  dream." 

She  leans  her  head  upon  the  little  table ;  till  pre 
sently  the  tears  come  crowding  her  eyes  so  fast,  she 
rises  gently  and  with  quick  gliding  steps,  like  a  dream, 
— a  beautiful  dream  which  we  would  keep,  if  we  could, 
— she  is  gone. 

I  must  have  my  nap,  however,  and  to  that  end,  sir, 
Addio,  Z.  P. 


XXL 

tlje  f  Ming. 

Feb.  17,  '81. 

I  SUPPOSE,  Professor,  you  are  able  to  tell  the  exact 
moment,  to  a  fraction,  when  any  star  will  cross  the 
meridian,  or  any  planet  wheel  into  the  field  of  your  up 
ward-pointing  thirty-two  pounder.  You  know  the  very 
needle-point  of  time  when  this  will  be :  so  that  surprises 
in  life  seem  to  you,  no  doubt  (by  this  continual  working 
out  and  demonstrating  of  facts),  not  surprises  merely, 
but  blunders.  You  say  to  yourself,  do  you  not,  when 
extraordinary  things  occur,  "  I  should  have  known  this : 
I  could  have  known  it :  I  ought  to  have  known  it." 

Such  was  our  case  on  Sunday  morning,  when  it  was 
announced  through  the  whole  house — the  report  reach 
ing  even  to  my  dressing-room — that  our  Tib  had  a  little 
heifer ! 

Of  all  the  household  my  father  only  was  entirely 


268  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

calm.  He  has  an  account  of  every  thing  in  red  chalk, 
and  was  prepared.  Not  so  Bob,  who  was  so  excited 
that  he  flew  out  bareheaded  and  barefooted,  and  in  his 
shirt  only,  though  the  morning  was  raw  and  pointedly 
disagreeable.  The  first  impressions  to  any  creature 
arriving  in  the  world,  in  such  weather,  must  be  dismal 
to  a  degree. 

I  went  out  in  the  afternoon  to  look  at  the  arrival, 
but  discovered  nothing  of  special  note.  It  is  very  calf-y ; 
blunders  and  kicks  about,  apparently  to  the  entire  satis 
faction  of  Tib,  who  says  "  boo — boo,"  to  all  its  perform 
ances,  and  looks  a  world  of  delight :  a  continual  stare  of 
wonder  and  fear. 

The  dogs  walked  down  stiffly,  with  their  tails  curled 
tightly  on  their  backs,  and  looked  through  the  pickets 
with  one  foot  lifted,  and  their  noses  twisting  about  as 
they  snuffed  delicately  at  the  prodigy.  This  was  as 
much  as  they  dare  do ;  so  fierce  is  the  mother.  Rover 
evidently  remembers  how  she  chased  him  last  summer 
the  whole  length  of  the  pasture,  he  escaping,  as  you  may 
say,  only  by  the  skin  of  his  teeth,  and  a  quick  jump  at 
a  six-foot  fence.  I  say  he  appears  to  remember  that 
transaction.  But  it  is  very  easy  to  stand  at  a  distance 
and  bark;  and  a  more  outlandish  thing  than  a  calf, 
doubtless,  a  dog  never  saw.  As  to  that  thief  of  a  black 


THE    TIBLINO.  269 

rascal  that  stole  into  the  pasture  last  summer,  and  got 
the  blind  side  of  Tib,  his  day  is  up.  His  expectations, 
if  he  had  any,  must  be  effectually  quashed  by  this  event. 

As  I  have  said,  the  calfishness  of  this  heifer  is  a  per 
fect  success.  Nothing  could  be  more  satisfactorily  awk 
ward  to  its  mother,  one  would  say,  than  its  buttings,  its 
sudden  paralytic  shocks,  its  exquisite  blunderheadedness. 
In  fact,  I  believe  Tib  is  content.  All  day  she  stands  by 
the  stable  door,  waiting  the  joyous  moment  when  this 
charming  piece  of  awkwardness  will  be  let  out  for  her 
supper.  What  a  great  time  is  that!  What  boo-ooings, 
and  ululations  !  What  wild  looks  against  any  possible 
enemy  !  Fiery  dragons,  as  it  were,  in  her  eyes,  mingled 
with  such  swimming  devotion  to  that  booby  of  a  calf. 

Stand  back,  she  says,  stand  back,  all  of  you  that 
don't  want  to  be  torn  into  ten  thousand  fragments,  while 
my  little  heifer  is  getting  her  supper.  Boo-oo !  boo-oo ! 

On  the  whole,  it  was  pleasant  to  have  this  happen 
on  Sunday.  Certainly  no  reasonable  man  could  object, 
all  things  considered — I  say  no  one  could  object  to  it. 
I  will  not  deny,  however,  that  it  gave  the  day  rather  a 
festive  character  :  too  much  so,  I  mean.  Blustering  and 
sour  as  was  the  weather,  I  went  twice  to  church — a  rare 
circumstance — and  rarer  still,  my  wife  caught  herself, 
just  at  twilight,  singing  "  Love  Not,"  mistaking  it  for 


270  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

"  Come  ye  disconsolate."  Now,  this  happens  not  unfre- 
quently  to  myself — I  mean  the  singing,  for  one  or  two 
abstracted  moments,  some  song  or  melancholy  air,  think 
ing  it  to  be  a  solemn  hymn  suitable  for  the  day.  My 
wife  is  quick  to  detect  such  improprieties,  and  does  it  in 
her  happiest  way,  but  with  a  serious  earnestness  that  is 
always  successful.  I  need  not  say,  therefore,  how  inex 
pressibly  shocked  she  was  to-day,  when  she  discovered 
herself  humming  such  a  profane  song. 

Good-bye,  Professor.  We  intend  to  raise  this  young 
Tibling ;  and,  next  summer,  if  you  come  up,  you  shall 
put  eyes  on  the  beauty.  Like  her  mother,  she  is  of  a 
beautiful  red  color,  and  her  back  straight  as  a  hickory 
sapling.  Yours,  Z.  P. 


XXII. 


Up-Country,  Feb.,  1851. 

BUT  a  few  days  since,  sir,  I  wrote  you  of  weather  so 
cold  and  sharp  —  five  below  the  Zero  —  and  now  it  is 
raining  slowly,  and  the  quicksilver  has  gone  up  to  46. 
The  snow  is  fast  leaving  the  meadows,  and  in  the  hol 
lows  little  ponds  are  forming,  and  discharging  here  and 
there  into  the  highway,  or  down  the  river-bank.  The 
sky  is  dark  and  clouded  every  where,  but  the  wind  hav 
ing  retired,  it  is  still  and  silent  as  was  that  dreamy  and 
clock-striking  Saturday. 

So  is  it  out  of  doors  ;  and  in-doors  it  is  the  hour 
when  we  are  usually  quiet.  It  is  three  o'clock,  P.  M.  ; 
and  I  am  but  just  breakfasted.  All  the  morning  I  staid 
in  bed,  too  poorly  to  rise,  and  hardly  ill  enough  to  so 
waste  a  whole  half  day  out  01  a  life  so  short.  Now  and 
then  I  made  little  efforts,  but  sank  back  again,  easily, 


2*72  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

and  went  on  dozing  and  half-dreaming,  and  caring  pre 
cious  little,  I  suspect,  for  tlie  great  world  and  its  doings. 
Said  Tennyson  (though  I  doubt  if  he  ever  meant  to  say 
it  in  print) — 

Half  the  night  I  waste  in  sighs ; 

Half,  iu  dreams  I  sorrow  after 
The  hand,  the  lip,  the  eyes. 

The  winsome  laughter ! 

Not  so  do  I.  I  waste  no  time  upon  sighs ;  and  as 
to  the  hand,  the  lip,  the  eyes,  the  winsome  laughter,  I 
see  them  and  hear  them  all  day. 

But  most  always  in  sleep,  when  I  am  well,  or  con 
valescing,  I  come  upon  dream-pictures,  long  since  com 
pleted  and  perfected.  One  is  among  mountains  (a  wide 
river  flowing  smoothly  between),  where  always  upon 
rounding  a  spur — which  I  do  with  a  full  consciousness 
of  the  pleasure  to  come — down  falls  a  beautiful  cataract, 
wonderful  to  see  !  Sometimes  a  friend  who  is  with  me, 
slips  off  the  brink  and  goes  sheer  down  into  the  foam, 
upon  which  I  descend  hastily,  and  grasping  him  by  his 
coat-tail,  draw  him  out  safely ;  and  then  we  climb  up 
and  take  another  look,  and  wonder  and  are  astonished 
beyond  all  expression.  Shortly  after  this,  it  is  time  to 
wake.  (My  friend  never  drowns,  or  is  any  thing  more 


THE   LATE    MORNING.  2*73 

than  pleasantly  shocked  :  I  have  already  pulled  him  out 
three  times  this  winter.) 

At  eleven  this  morning,  the  mail  arrived,  and  T. 
brought  me  up  the  letters.  I  roused  myself  sufficiently 
to  go  through  with  one  from  Aps  Appleby,  and  one  from 
the  great  city ;  and  to  look  at  the  cards  of  two  people 
who  have  been  so  thoughtful  as  to  send  up  from  town, 
an  invitation  to  their  wedding. 

This  broke  in  upon  my  dreams,  and  at  last,  with  an 
heroic  effort,  I  arose  for  the  day. 

As  I  said,  I  have  but  breakfasted ;  but  already  the 
night  is  about  to  overshadow  us :  so  dark  and  heavy  is 
the  sky.  The  house  is  unwontedly  still.  T.  and  Joy 
are  up  somewhere  in  those  summer  rooms,  whither  the 
white  steam  from  the  copper  on  the  hall-stove  curls 
itself  lazily,  the  waters  surging  about  like  the  low  wash 
of  the  sea  under  the  windows  of  a  ship.  Tidy  sits  oppo 
site  in  a  scarlet  jacket,  swaying  gently  about  in  the 
great  rocker ;  and  still  weaving — nobody  knows  what 
— from  those  golden  and  silver  stuffs  which  lie  flashing 
in  her  lap  like  brilliants.  My  father,  having  just  been 
through  to  look  at  the  weather  from  the  front  door,  has 
returned  again  to  his  room,  and  is  busy  with  the  Satur 
day  papers. 

Was  I  dreaming  this  morning,  or  am  I  dreaming 
12* 


274  UP-COUNTRY  LETTERS. 

now  ?  So  still  is  it,  and  my  brain  so  light  from  fasting, 
thought  floats  away  and  leads  me  captive.  My  will 
goes  from  me,  and  I  am  as  a  man  in  some  enchanted 
land.  Is  it  more  life  now — I  ask  myself — than  it  was 
last  night,  in  among  those  steep  mountains,  and  by  that 
strange  waterfall? 

It  is  well  that  not  all  the  world  are  so  idle.  "Doubt 
less,  all  this  day  throughout  the  wide  land  (and  to  roll 
on  all  through  the  long  night)  the  iron  trains  have  been 
glancing  over  valleys,  and  around  and  through  moun 
tain-spurs,  stopping  for  a  moment,  here  and  there,  and 
then  pushing  on  again  with  their  hundreds  and  five 
hundreds  of  men  and  women,  all  bound  for  somewhere, 
and  up  for  the  day.  Up  and  down  the  streets  of  the 
great  cities,  has  pressed  on — and  still  press  on — the 
crowd ;  busy,  busy,  and  for  ever  busy  :  not  dozing  in 
still  chambers,  but  up  for  the  day.  Out  on  the  deep, 
the  sailor  boy  has  been  aloft,  rocking  upon  the  broad 
arms  of  the  ship  and  plunging  in  the  foam  ;  and  all  over 
the  land,  people  have  been  up  and  about,  thrashing  out 
something,  whether  in  golden  dreams,  or  the  golden 
wheat.  High  in  the  Arctic  seas,  ships  are  riding  in  the 
ice-fields,  with  the  pale  sun  glimmering  every  where 
upon  the  white  expanse  ;  and  afar  away  in  the  western 
wilds,  here  and  there  among  the  jagged  mountains 


THE   LATE    MORNING*  275 

small  companies  of  haggard  men  and  women,  half 
crazed,  half  starved,  but  still  with  bright  dreams  of  a 
home  over  the  mountains,  are  struggling  on  to  the  land 
of  gold  :  and  so  crazed  are  they  with  this  brilliant  to 
morrow,  they  would  hardly  exchange  with  me,  for  my 
warm  rooms  and  my  up-country  repose. 

The  night  comes.  Slowly,  slowly,  over  all :  the  rail- 
car  and  the  steamer,  the  hurrying  citizen  and  the  sailor- 
boy  aloft,  the  ice-bound  ship  and  the  starving  emigrant, 
— slowly,  slowly,  comes  the  night.  Mother  of  all  beau 
tiful  imaginings,  home  of  all  fantasies,  weaver  of  things 
brighter  than  all  precious  stones ;  welcome,  welcome  the 
night. 


XXIII. 

gjr. 

March,  Up-Country,  1851. 

IN  tliese  hard  winter  days,  Professor,  I  step  back  occa 
sionally  into  the  silent  years  of  the  Past.  So  it  has 
happened  that  I  have  been  thinking,  this  morning,  of 
my  grandfather,  as  I  remember  him  twenty  and  twenty- 
five  years  ago :  his  hair-lip,  his  garments  of  ancient  cut, 
and  the  shovel  hat,  not  unlike  the  kind  now  worn  by 
the  English  Bishops.  I  saw  much  of  him  in  those  days, 
as  only  a  garden  separated  his  house  from  my  father's. 
(I  am  talking  now  of  twenty  years  ago  :  as  my  father 
has  his  "forty  years  ago,"  so  I  have  my  twenty.) 

My  father  was  an  adventurous  young  man,  going 
here  and  there  about  the  world  as  suited  his  humor. 

He  came  over  from South  Farms,  married  one  of 

the  old  gentleman's  daughters,  and  built  him  a  large 
stylish  house  just  at  the  end  of  my  grandfather's  garden. 
Both  houses  were  close  by  the  road,  and  the  road  was 


Mu.   PUNDISON'S   GRANDFATHER,     277 

narrow ;  but  on  either  side  was  a  strip  of  grass,  and  in 
process  of  time,  I  appeared  and  began  ball-playing  upon 
the  green  strip,  on  the  west  side  of  the  road. 

At  these  times,  on  summer  mornings,  when  we  were 
getting  well  warm  at  bass-ball  or  wicket,  my  grandfather 
would  be  seen  coming  out  of  his  little  swing-gate,  with 
the  big  hat  aforesaid,  and  a  cane.  He  enjoyed  the  game 
as  much  as  the  youngest  of  us,  but  came  mainly  to  see 
fair  play  and  decide  mooted  points. 

Putting  on  his  glasses,  he  seated  himself  in  the  shade 
on  the  eastern  piazza,  and  first  carefully  removed  his 
hat,  and  then,  as  carefully,— his  coat  and  shoes,  which  were 
to  be  put  on  again  after  he  was  thoroughly  aired — in  re 
gard  to  which  he  had  a  theory  which  he  discussed  with 
my  father,  who  had  a  very  different  theory,  and  always 
wore  boots.  They  never  could  agree,  but  it  was  a  stand 
ing  topic,  year  after  year. 

At  this  time  poplars  were  growing  before  the  house, 
and  dozens  of  blackbirds  would  be  chattering  in  the 
great  crotches,  where  the  trees  had  been  cut  off;  and 
their  singing  was  part  of  the  entertainment.  My  grand 
father's  remarks,  as  he  sat  with  his  coat  off  on  the  pi 
azza  and  talked  to  us  and  to  himself, — the  shouts  of  the 
boys,  and  the  gabble  of  those  birds, — they  were  all  in  a 
mix,  but  all  pleasant  and  jovial. 


278  UP-COUNTRY  LETTERS. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  a  little  sharpened  by  sudden  dis 
putation,  but  soon  to  be  smoothed  down  by  my  grand 
father's  winning  way,  and  the  pleasant  sport  to  go  on 
again  more  jubilant  than  ever ;  and  in  a  manner  expres 
sive,  as  we  may  say,  of  very  high  times. 

Those  were  the  days,  my  old  friend,  when  we  said 
Codfish  !  and  By  thunder  !  Jimmineity  !  and  Gosh  ! 
— but  not  very  safely  within  hearing  of  the  elders.  The 
simpler  forms,  however,  as  c — d  f — sh  !  and  g — sh  !  (we 
must  be  proper  now)  were  permitted,  I  believe ;  but  always 
considered  a  great  privilege :  a  luxury,  to  be  used  rarely. 

Ah,  what  would  I  not  give  for  a  picture  of  my  grand 
father,  as  he  looked  in  those  by-thunder  days  under  the 
poplars :  or,  as  he  sat  in  his  great  chair,  in  the  old  beam- 
hung  kitchen,  across  the  garden :  or,  still  better,  as  he 
looked  in  the  great  corner-pew  of  the  old  meeting-house. 
It  is  strange  that  I  remember,  now,  but  one  prayer- 
meeting  in  the  old  meeting-house :  one  only,  though  it  is 
doubtless  a  fair  type  of  the  many  that  I  must  have  at 
tended.  On  this  occasion  I  carried  my  flute,  to  give 
my  grandfather  the  key-note  and  accompaniment. — 
Wells  was  an  especial  favorite  of  his ;  we  undoubtedly 
sang  it  at  this  time,  followed  by  Mear,  and  it's  not  un 
likely  we  may  have  had  China :  for  China — was  of 
those  days. 


Mil.   PUNDISON'S   GRANDFATHER.     279 

I  was  not  afraid  of  playing  the  flute.  It  was  easy 
enough,  and  I  liked  to  get  an  occasional  look  at  my 
grandfather's  face,  the  action  of  which  might  have  been 
said  to  be  a  separate  tune.  I  mean  to  say,  that  if  the 
old  gentleman  had  uttered  no  voice,  but  merely  made 
the  faces  he  did,  it  would  have  been  as  good  as  the  best 
funeral  hymn  you  ever  heard.  So  massive  and  vigorous 
was  the  action. 

By  humoring  my  grandfather's  movement,  I  was 
able  to  keep  in  company  with  him,  and  we  all  came  out 
together,  save  Aunt  Patty,  who,  sitting  some  distance 
off,  was  always  unfortunate  in  this  respect.  She  seldom 
arrived  in  time.  As  she  sang  second  treble,  it  was 
usually  a  kind  of  gentle  descent,  as  of  sliding  down  hill, 
which  she  had  to  make,  and  as  she  had  a  sweet  voice, 
this  last  movement  was  always  a  pleasant  one.  After 
waiting  until  Aunt  Patty  had  arrived,  which  my  grand 
father  did  very  soberly,  looking  for  a  moment  over  his 
spectacles  in  her  direction,  he  proceeded  to  deacon  out 
the  next  stanza,  and  again  I  screwed  my  mouth  down  to 
the  flute,  and  giving  the  key-note,  away  we  started 
again;  and  sometimes  I  thought  the  movement  alto 
gether  was  very  grand.  It  would  have  eased  me  very 
much — so  excited  did  I  get,  when  there  were  many 
voices — if  I  could  have  made  faces  like  my  grandfather, 


280  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

but  of  course  that  was  impossible.  (I  made  a  continual 
face  with  my  flute.)  Again  we  came  to  a  close,  and 
again  Aunt  Patty  would  be  found  upon  the  top  of  that 
high  note,  from  which  she  descended  with  a  flourish  and 
easy  grace  that  were  inimitable. 

Under  the  singer's  gallery  sat  Uncle  L ,  with  a 

bandanna  round  his  head.  He  was  a  deacon.  In 

another  square  pew,  was  Capt.  Barny ,  red-faced 

and  farmer-like.  Opposite  our  pew,  Squire was  to 

be  seen ;  tall,  gaunt  and  oratorical.  Some  one  would 
now  be* called  upon  to  pray.  Sometimes  it  would  be  my 
grandfather  himself,  but  it  is  strange  that  I  do  not  re 
member  much  about  his  prayers.  But  Captain  Barny's 
are  sounding  in  my  ears  at  this  moment.  His  prayer 
began  usually  in  a  quiet  way,  but  proceeded  rapidly  to 
quick  and  sobbing  petitions,  and  importunate  wrestlings 
with  the  giver  of  all  grace.  I  remember  that  it  always 

seemed  strange  to  me,  at  first,  that  Capt. should 

get  so  suddenly  excited,  but  before  he  closed,  my  heart 
would  begin  to  throb,  my  eyes  fill  with  tears,  and  I 
would  be  borne  away  and  away,  with  the  same  spirit. 

After  the  captain,  would  rise,  perhaps,  the  tall  form 

of  Squire .  After  the  earnestness  of  the  former, 

the  squire  seemed  very  cold  and  stately.  There  was  no 
hesitation  in  his  manner,  but  a  deliberate  statement  of 


MR.    PUNDISON'S    GRANDFATHER.      281 

affairs,  and  a  sort  of  consciousness  that  they  were  not, 
after  all,  so  bad  as  they  might  be.  On  this  presumption, 
a  kind  of  grand  speech  was  made  to  the  Throne,  after 
which,  the  squire  said  Amen,  very  sharp  and  loud,  and 
took  his  seat  with  an  air  of  complacency. 

The  character  of  my  grandfather's  prayers,  I  now  re 
member,  was  that  of  a  winning  tenderness ;  but  always 
calm  and  collected.  His  hair-lip  gave  an  intonation  to 
his  words,  that  made  his  prayers  seem  wholly  different 
from  any  others,  and  it  was  seldom  that  he  closed,  with 
out  being  suffused  with  tears.  A  happier  man  never 
lived,  but  in  this  respect  he  was  easily  discomposed : 
slight  things  brought  tears  to  his  eyes. 

After  the  meeting  was  over,  I  rode  home  with  him 
in  that  immensely  wide  one-horse  wagon ;  so  wide  that 
one  wheel  always  ran  outside  the  track :  and  by  this 
time  I  sometimes  drove  the  old  horse  myself.  He  was 
so  fat  that  it  evidently  pained  him  to  trot,  but  occasion 
ally  we  succeeded  in  getting  him  into  that  movement. 
But  his  habit  of  groaning  about  it  completely  blinded 
my  grandfather,  and  the  result  was  that  after  such  a 
ride,  the  old  bay  had  more  oats  than  he  could  make 
way  with  for  a  week.  Ah,  the  old,  old  days — the  days 
of  long  ago.  Good  morning. 

Z.  P. 


XXIV. 

©Ib  tentttot 


Up-Country,  March,  1851. 

CONTINUING  my  researches  among  those  old  days,  those 
pleasant  old  days,  I  find  myself  standing  on  the  east  side 
of  the  house,  one  Sunday  morning,  sunning  myself,  and 
revolving  in  my  mind,  a  few  small  items  in  regard  to 
matters  and  things  in  general. 

I  had  said  darn  it,  or  something  equally  profane,  to 
the  hired  man  ;  and  being  overheard,  had  been  tied  up 
for  a  little  time,  to  a  poplar  that  stood  by  the  meadow 
fence.  I  was  now  free  again,  and  having  had  my  neck 
and  ears  scrubbed  and  rubbed  till  they  were  full  of  blood, 
the  soft  and  quiet  beauty  of  the  day  was  beginning  to 
exert  its  power  over  me.  The  being  tied  up  I  considered 
abominable,  but  it  was  all  over  now,  and  Sunday,  even 
then,  was  a  beautiful  day  to  me. 

So  still  was  it,  I  could  hear  the  bark  of  the  squirrels 


THE   OLD   CONNECTICUT    SUNDAY.    283 

on  the  mountain  over  the  river,  and  from  the  two  moun 
tains,  east  and  west,  the  crows  were  cawing  to  each 
other,  and  occasionally  crossing  over,  with  a  few  short 
remarks  on  the  way.  About  ten  o'clock,  a  dust  was 
seen  down  the  road,  and  presently  rattling  by,  with  his 
horses  on  a  long  trot,  went  Captain  Bamy — who  was  so 
famous  in  prayer. 

My  father  at  that  day  was  inflexibly  severe  in  his 
judgments,  and  I  sometimes  thought  his  opinion  of  Cap 
tain  Barny's  driving  was  not  very  flattering  to  that  ardent 
man.  My  father  never  said  a  word  to  that  effect,  but 
as  he  stopped  shaving  himself  to  see  who  was  going  by 
at  such  a  jingling  rate,  and  always  finding  it  to  be  the 
Captain,  he  usually  turned  and  looked  at  me  with  a 
kind  of  searching  severity,  as  if  to  ease  his  mind  of  all 
responsibility  in  the  matter ;  and  perhaps  to  suggest  very 
remotely  the  high  impropriety  of  that  proceeding.  Pre 
sently  up  came  Abel  B.,  and  his  family,  and  not  long 
afterward  rolled  by  the  coach  of  Uncle  John.  This  was 
the  only  coach  in  the  town.  All  others,  with  scarcely 
an  exception,  rode  in  open  two-horse  lumber  wagons, 
Avith  chairs  and  double  seats  mixed  in  together.  The 
people  I  have  mentioned,  lived  at  a  distance  of  three  or 
four  miles,  and  were  obliged  to  start  early  to  be  sure 
and  not  get  belated.  We  were  within  a  mile  and  could 


284  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

wait  till  nearer  the  hour  of  service.  It  would  not  do  to 
wait  long,  however,  and  my  father  being  always  very 
prompt,  we  proceeded  to  lock  up  the  house,  and  then, 
with  the  hired  man  to  drive — my  father  sitting,  with 
his  arms  folded,  on  one  of  the  great  double  slat-bottomed 
chairs — we  joined  in  the  travel  to  the  old  Meeting-House. 
With  a  calm  deliberation,  the  horses  trotting  gently  on 
the  level  spots,  we  ascended  the  hill  to  Captain  John 

M 's,  from  which  across  the  valley,  could  be  seen 

the  Meeting-House  steeple  rocking  in  the  air,  and  that 
great  bell  swinging  its  black  mouth  to  the  north  and  the 
south,  and  now  hanging  for  a  moment  keeled  up  in  the 
air,  down  to  come  again  with  a  shock  and  clang  which 
rang  miles  and  miles  away,  from  one  hill  to  another, 
and  finally  at  a  great  distance,  died  slowly  among  the 
mountains. 

Descending  this  hill  with  extreme  care,  and  only 
easing  the  horses  a  little  just  at  the  foot,  we  drove  on 
with  some  little  spirit  across  the  brook,  and  up  the 
gentle  ascent  to  the  south  door  of  the  house.  There 
were  three  great  double  doors,  opening  north,  south,  and 
east ;  and  two  ranges  of  windows,  one  above  the  other, 
so  that  the  galleries  were  as  light  as  the  seats  below. 
The  immense  building  was  full  of  aisles,  running  around 
the  great  square  pews,  which  were  four-sided,  and  had 
ai)  open  lattice-work  at  top. 


THE   OLD    CONNECTICUT  SUNDAY.    285 

My  father  went  up  and  took  a  conspicuous  seat  in 
the  Singers'  Gallery.  I  have  heard  him  say  that  the 
singers  formerly  filled  the  front  seats  in  all  the  galleries, 
but  that  was  not  in  my  time.  I  sat  with  my  mother  in 
my  grandfather's  pew,  from  which,  through  the  open 
door  into  the  tower,  I  could  see  the  bell-man  pulling — 
and  with  how  solemn  a  face — upon  the  rope  which  came 
down  as  from  the  sky  itself,  and  sometimes  lifted  the 
man  two  or  three  feet  in  the  air.  How  tremendous  was 
all  that  to  my  boy-imagination — and  the  stairs  winding 

and  winding  up  that  high  tower — and  the  bats  flying 

• 

about  in  the  dim  light,  and  the  smell  of  old  timber  rot 
ting  in  the  dark — tremendous  it  was,  and  tremendous  it 
still  is,  in  my  memory. 

And  now  from  behind  that  immense  pulpit,  up  rises 
the  minister — unseen  before — and  lifting  his  hands, 
says,  Let  us  pray.  In  the  same  moment  rise  here  and 
there,  about  the  great  house,  old  and  young,  men, 
women,  and  children,  and  looking  to  all  points  of  the 
compass,  take  various  postures  of  prayer.  Some  stand 
erect,  with  arms  folded,  and  a  kind  of  look  of  defiance. 
Some  lean  upon  the  top  of  the  pews ;  some  ease  them 
selves  by  resting  one  foot  upon  the  seat ;  and  some  do 
not  rise,  but  endeavor  to  find  some  posture  in  sitting, 
that  is  suitable  for  the  occasion.  Among  the  latter  is 


286  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

Aunt  Patty,  who  sits  and  rocks  herself  to  and  fro ;  and 
with  a  half  smile  upon  her  face,  and  tears  in  her  eyes, 
looks  around  occasionally  upon  the  congregation,  and 
again  rocks  herself  into  the  highest  devotion. 

As  the  minister  says  Amen,  Aunt  Patty  takes  a  long 
breath,  and  every  body  coughs  and  makes  as  much  noise 
as  is  possibly  consistent  with  the  occasion.  The  psalm 
or  hymn  is  then  given,  omitting  always  the  third  and 
fourth  verses ;  and  my  father  blows  gently  in  a  little 
cedar  pitch-pipe,  and  catching  the  note,  he  sounds  the 
key  for  the  treble,  tenor,  and  bass.  The  headman  at 
the  bass  echoes  him  slightly,  and  then  all  the  singers, 
coughing  a  little,  rise  and  sound,  and  start  upon  their 
travels.  The  singing,  as  I  remember  it,  was  spirited  and 
pretty  exact — the  treble  getting  sometimes  a  half-note 
too  high — young  girls  were  especially  liable  to  this, 
which  my  father  corrected  by  looking  sharply  in  that 
direction,  at  the  slight  pauses  between  the  verses.  But 
Moses  and  Aaron  !  what  a  picture  was  that  man  at  the 
bass  !  The  man  with  the  great  bass-viol  and  the — the 
faces ! 

It  was  good  singing,  but  did  not  seem  to  go  to  the 
heart  of  the  matter,  as  did  my  grandfather,  with  Mear, 
and  my  flute,  and  Aunt  Patty  to  put  in  the  poetry. 

I  usually  slept  through  the  sermon,  with  my  head 


THE   OLD   CONNECTICUT  SUNDAY.    287 

in  my  mother's  lap ;  and,  at  noon,  we  went  over  to 

Deacon  M 's,  and  ate  dough-nuts ;  and  rarely,  but 

at  times,  I  got  away  into  a  famous  orchard  where,  in 
their  season,  were  delicious  apples.  Others  grouped 
about  the  doors,  discussing  small  matters  in  a  low  tone, 
and  eating  fennel  and  caraway  seed. 

At  one  o'clock,  the  big  bell  rang  again,  faster  than 
usual,  and  every  body  entered  and  took  their  seats  with 
an  expression  of  ease  and  spirit  that  was  entirely  pecu 
liar  to  the  afternoon  service.  Young  men  looked  about 
in  a  smart  and  knowing  way,  and  compared  trousers 
and  shirt-buttons,  or  used  a  penknife  in  a  shy  and  very 
elegant  manner ;  while  the  young  girls, — only  for  the 
young  men  and  that  it  was  Sunday — seemed  quite  ready 
to  fly  up  into  the  very  heavens. 

A  few  people  Avould  be  seen  in  the  afternoon,  who 
were  not  there  in  the  morning  :  they  were  mostly  from 
remote  and  outlandish  places,  and  had  a  shy  air,  as 
though  they  had  been  a  long  time  in  the  woods. 

In  accordance  with  the  spirit  I  have  mentioned,  the 
prayers  and  the  singing  were  sensibly  enlivened  in  the 
afternoon,  and  if  possible,  a  set-piece  or  anthem,  was 
sung.  If,  however,  the  occasion  was  one  of  solemnity, 
a  hymn  was  given  out  "  to  close  with  the  doxology :" 
upon  which  the  whole  congregation  rose,  and  my  heart 


288  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

would  suddenly  begin  pounding,  and  my  brain  reel 
away  with  me,  till  I  felt  like  shouting  out  at  the  top  of 
my  voice. 

The  afternoon  service,  especially  in  the  hot  summer 
days,  seemed  very  long.  Great  statements  were  made 
and  recapitulated,  arguments  entered  into,  and  examined 
and  re-examined,  while  all  over  the  house  the  drowsy 
air  was  still  and  slumberous.  The  buzz  of  a  blue-bottle 
fly  on  one  of  the  windows,  was  heard  distinctly  through 
the  whole  building — wasps  flew  about  here  and  there, 
and  were  struck  at,  cautiously,  by  people  on  the  point  of 
dozing.  In  this  still  time,  a  giggle  might  be  heard  from 
some  boys  in  the  south  gallery,  where  the  wasps  are 
busiest,  and  immediately  my  father  rises  in  his  seat,  and 
rapping  smartly  on  his  pitch-pipe,  looks  over  at  the  cul 
prits.  My  father  stands  for  a  moment,  in  this  solemn 
manner,  until  the  disturbance  ceases ;  and  the  minister, 
after  a  slight  pause  in  his  sermon,  travels  on  again,  and 
after  long  turns  and  returns,  closes  the  book  slowly,  and 
pronounces  to  all  the  house,  Amen! 

At  this  moment,  a  few  hired  men  and  others  slip  out 
quietly  to  the  wagons,  a.nd  in  ten  minutes  the  old  house 
is  deserted,  and  the  people  are  seen  hurrying  away  in  all 
directions.  Wagons  come  up  to  the  doors  with  a  smart 
crack  of  the  whip, — in  jump  or  climb  the  women  and 


THE   OLD   CONNECTICUT   SUNDAY.     289 

children  ;  and  away  they  rattle.  Every  body  hurries, 
because  every  body  is  hungry.  Dough-nuts  and  cara 
way  seed  are  a  miserable  substitute  for  dinner.  By 
hurry,  however,  you  are  not  to  understand  an  indecent 
haste :  by  no  means  ;  but  nobody  loiters  on  the  way. 

I  fear  we  are  getting  tiresome,  Professor,  and  I  will 
spare  you  the  dinner.  Moreover,  I  will  spare  you  the 
Sunday-night  scampering  about  the  country.  With  all 
its  peculiarities,  it  was  to  me  a  holy  day :  a  solemn  day. 
It  was  the  Old  Connecticut  Sabbath !  There  never  was 
any  tiling  like  it  before,  and  there  never  will  be.  It  has 
gone  by.  It  is  of  the  Past.  Already  the  Old  House  is 
torn  down,  and  a  new  church  is  built  in  the  latest  stylo 
with  slips  and  an  organ  ! 

It  has  gone  by. 

Yours,  Z.  P. 


13 


XXV. 

$mt  to  JJtobn  fl.  JTO 

Fundison  House,  March,  1851. 

THE  whole  affair  of  the  dinner  at  Lady  Miriam's  was  so 
unusual,  that  I  suppose,  sir,  you  will  expect  to  hear  of  it. 
The  invitation  was  to  a  family  dinner  at  3  o'clock, 
on  Thursday;  to  which  my  father  sent  the  following 
reply : 

DEAR  MADAM: 

We  will  come.     We  shall  leave 

Pundison  House  at  twelve,  or  say  half-past,  by  the  me 
ridian  mark,  and  arrive  in  the  big  wagon  at  2  P.  M. 
In  great  haste, 

Af ly, 

w.  r. 

Keen  and  Cold,  Thursday,  1.45.    ) 
Therm.  6  below :  wind  N,  W.      J 


To   THE    MOUNTAIN.  291 

The  "  af ly  "  in  the  above  note  was  a  slip 

of  the  pen,  of  which  I  am  sure  my  father  was  wholly  un 
conscious.  It  is  his  way  in  writing  to  his  children,  and 
certainly  there  was  no  harm  in  so  subscribing  himself 
to  the  Lady  M.,  but  I  think  it  would  annoy  him  some 
what  to  know  that  he  had  done  it. 

On  Thursday,  therefore,  say  twelve  to  half-past,  by 
the  clock  and  the  meridian  mark,  we  started  for  the 
mountain.  We  rode  in  the  farm-wagon,  behind  the  old 
bays.  Johnny  drove,  and  sat  with  my  father.  We  had 
three  double  chairs,  and  as  Kate  was  desirous  of  going, 
we  locked  up  the  house,  buried  the  fires,  and  put  a 
kitchen  chair  in  the  tail  of  the  wagon  for  Kate.  In  this 
way  we  started,  but  finding  the  roads  exceedingly  broken, 
my  father  made  a  halt  at  Captain  Dander's,  and  sent 
Johnny  back  for  Bob  and  the  old  brown  mare,  with  a 
tandem  harness. 

Thus  equipped,  and  with  Bob  to  ride  the  mare,  we 
started  again,  and  went  off  with  considerable  spirit. 
The  brown  mare  is  perhaps  the  most  remarkable  horse 
to  dig  and  pull  on  a  lead  that  you  ever  saw ;  and  with 
Bob  on  her  back  (she  being  partial  to  Bob),  would  have 
taken  us  up  alone. 

We  got  on  very  well,  except  that  in  rough  spots, 
Kate's  chair  was  found  to  travel  about  and  tip,  this  way 


292  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

and  that,  in  a  very  frightful  manner,  and  finally,  after  a 
few  small  screams  from  the  women  in  that  end  of  the 
wagon,  we  made  another  halt,  and  Bob  bethought  him 
self  of  tying  the  chair  fast,  which  was  accordingly  done 
by  turning  it  back  foremost,  and  lashing  it  to  the  great 
double-chair  that  was  next  to  it,  back  to  back.  In  this 
way  Kate  had  only  a  rear  view  of  things,  but  she  travel 
led  safe. 

The  morning  being  bright  and  spring-like,  the  feel 
ing  of  being  embarked  in  a  considerable  enterprise,  was 
now  plainly  perceptible ;  and  as  we  rattled  down  to  the 
river,  and  the  brown  mare  broke  into  a  short  canter 
(Bob's  doings,  no  doubt),  every  body  talked  and  looked 
quantities  of  happiness.  Nobody  could  hear  what  any 
one  said,  such  was  the  rattle  and  the  jar, — but  it  didn't 
seem  to  make  much  difference  with  the  enjoyment.  My 
father  got  quite  red  in  the  face,  calling  to  Bob  to  hold 
in  the  brown  mare,  but  Bob  heard  nothing  but  the  roar 
of  the  river — so  he  said  afterwards — so  on  we  went  and 
made  the  bridge  in  very  grand  style ;  so  grand,  in  fact, 
that  the  whole  fabric  quivered  and  quaked  as  we  thun 
dered  on.  At  this  juncture,  my  father  cried  out  in  a 
voice  of  thunder, — "  Whoh  /"  and  half-way  over  the 
Shag-Bark  we  came  to  another  halt.  The  wheel-horses 
braced  back ;  and  the  brown  mare  pulled  ahead,  but 


To   THE    MOUNTAIN.  293 

was  obliged  to  stop.  The  stopping  was  to  let  T.,  Joy 
and  Kate  alight,  as  we  were  now  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain,  and  they  had  decided  to  walk.  Johnny  got 
out  also,  and  let  down  the  hold-back, — a  long  iron  bar 
projecting  from  the  hind  axletree — a  sort  of  after-thought 
and  very  excellent  in  going  up  steep  mountains.  My 
father  drove,  and  Tidy  came  over  and  sat  with  me: 
while  my  father,  as  we  ascended,  and  arose  gradually 
from  one  plateau  to  another,  pointed  out  the  views  in 
the  landscape  beneath  us :  places  of  historical  interest, 
we  may  say,  where  important  events  occurred,  years  and 
years  ago.  At  every  few  rods,  in  places  designed  for 
that  purpose,  we  halted,  and  breathed  the  horses ;  my 
father  on  each  occasion  saying  Whoh  !  with  a  firm  em 
phasis  which  implied  implicit  obedience.  This,  he  is 
in  the  habit  of  saying,  is  a  matter  of  importance ;  espe 
cially  with  horses  that  are  balky.  The  only  way  to 
deal  with  them,  sir,  is  to  be  prompt. 

The  road,  I  don't  hesitate  to  say,  was  abominable, 
but  the  horses  were  true,  the  brown  mare  was  a  host  of 
herself,  and  if  the  pull  at  any  time  was  getting  too 
much,  my  father  said  whoh  in  advance,  and  stopped 
preremptorily.  We  could  depend,  you  observe,  upon 
the  after-thought  even  in  the  steepest  places.  The  dogs 
had  started  from  home  full  of  barks,  but  now  came 


294  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

on  behind,  with  tongues  lolling  and  bedraggled  tails. 
The  affair  was  unusual.  Some  distance  in  advance. 
T.  and  Joy  were  laughing  and  singing  to  themselves, 
but  nearly  out  of  breath.  When  we  came  to  the  big 
chestnut,  by  the  brook,  they  were  all  willing  to  ride 
again. 

Driving  through  the  brook  to  let  the  horses  drink, 
we  now  went  on  at  a  better  pace.  The  road  entered 
the  woods  here,  and  it  became  twilight ;  although  the 
sun  was  in  full  blaze  on  the  meridian.  There  was  an 
occasional  descent  in  the  rise  (an  invariable  law,  I  be 
lieve,  in  all  aspirations)  where  it  seemed  like  going  down 
cellar :  so  dark  and  dingy  was  it,  and  such  a  smell  of 
old  timber  and  moss.  About  2  o'clock  we  emerged,  and 
crossing  the  brook  where  the  air  was  rich  with  mint, 
behold  at  the  south,  standing  high  and  white  in  the 
morning  sun,  amid  groups  of  maples,  was  the  house — 
say  mansion  rather — of  Lady  Miriam.  Who  would  ex 
pect  after  such  an  ascent,  and  such  pilings  of  rocks  and 
dead  trees,  to  arrive  at  last  among  beautiful  meadows, 
and  orchards,  and  clumps  of  elms  and  old  oaks  ?  But 
here  they  were :  only  at  this  time,  the  meadows  were 
brown  and  the  orchards  bare. 

Lady  Miriam  came  down  to  the  gate,  and  received 
us  with  her  usual  happy  manner  ;  and  immediately  asked 


To  THE   MOUNTAIN.  295 

my  father  if  he  was  very  well.  My  father  looked  at  her 
very  intently  for  some  moments,  and  smiled,  but  made 
no  reply,  and  still  keeping  his  seat, — looked  about  over 
the  meadows ;  while  the  Lady  M.  stood  talking,  and  the 
young  people  had  alighted,  and  were  on  their  way  up 
to  the  great  north  piazza.  The  dogs  having  waded 
through  the  brook,  had  refreshed  themselves,  and  now 
came  up  and  made  lively  jumps  at  the  wagon-box,  but 
to  no  purpose.  The  Lady  Miriam  asked  my  father  if 
he  was  ready  to  alight ;  to  which  he  replied  that  he 
was  exceedingly  well :  "  never  better  in  my  life,  madam, 
but  that  boy, — Bob, — has  annoyed  me  somewhat :  I 
never  suffer  the  brown  mare  to  canter  in  harness  :  noth 
ing  can  be  more  vicious :  but  I  am  extraordinarily  well. 
I  weighed  myself  this  morning,  and  I  stand  at  one 
hundred  and  eighty,  and  a.  shade  over;  my  weight, 
madam,  has  not  varied  five  pounds  in  more  than  forty 
years  ;" — and  looking  about  on  the  meadows,  he  inquired 
of  Lady  M.,  if  her  cattle  were  stall-fed. 

After  several  invitations  to  descend,  my  father  came 
down  from  his  comfortable  seat,  and  we  entered  the 
great  square  parlor.  The  windows  of  that  room  look 
north  and  east,  and  away  across  the  valley,  over  dozens 
of  mountain  ridges  that  rise  like  winrows  in  the  dis 
tance. 


296  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

I  give  you  welcome,  said  the  Lady  M.,  to  rny  moun 
tain  home,  and  may  you  all  be  as  happy  as  I  am. 

Upon  this,  all  the  lady-lips  flew  up  again,  and  kissed 
and  were  kissed,  over  and  over,  while  my  father  and 
myself  uncovered  our  heads  and  bowed  half  way  to  the 
ground. 

This  formality  being  over,  we  were  free,  now,  of  the 
whole  house  :  to  go  where  we  pleased,  and  be  every  way 
unaccountable  till  3  o'clock.  My  father  took  the  oppor 
tunity  to  examine  the  Lady  M.'s  thermometer,  with  a 
view  to  have  the  weather  settled  and  decided  for  the 
day.  By  and  by,  when  the  great  bell  rang  for  dinner — 
a  bell  which  hangs  in  a  kind  of  tower,  at  the  S.  W. 
corner  of  the  house, — T.  and  Joy  were  found  strolling 
about  the  great  barn-yard,  their  hair  full  of  dust  from  a 
fanning  mill  which  was  going  at  a  lively  rate  on  the 
barn-floor :  I,  myself,  was  taking  some  observations  of 
the  ice  on  the  pond ;  Tidy  was  looking  down  the  valley 
at  Pundison  House  with  the  great  telescope ;  and  my 
father  having  compared  his  watch  with  the  bell,  was  in 
quiring  of  the  Lady  M.  if  she  had  a  meridian  mark. 

Dinner  was  served  in  the  great  dining-room,  on  the 
south  side  of  the  house.  After  saying  grace,  my  father 
folded  his  arms,  and  waited  for  whatever  might  happen. 
The  old  butler  stood  behind  the  Lady  Miriam,  and  im- 


To   THE   MOUNTAIN.  297 

mediately  removed  the  chief  dishes  to  a  side-table 
whence  he  returned  them  nicely  carved.  Considering 
that  we  were  pretty  sharp-set,  the  dinner  was  served 
with  quite  as  much  deliberation  as  was  agreeable.  None 
of  the  Lady  M.'s  nice  things  were  spared  that  day.  As 
far  as  she  knew  individual  tastes,  she  had  provided  for 
them. 

My  father  unfolded  his  arms  after  a  while,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  dine.  He  is  in  the  habit  of  saying  often  at 
home,  that  he  does  not  eat  because  he  is  hungry,  or  that 
he  does  not  eat  such  a  dish  because  he  likes  it,  but  be 
cause  it  is  best  for  him.  It  sometimes  seems  rather  a 
disappointment  to  him,  if  he  cannot  make  one  or  the 
other  of  the  above  remarks;  but  on  this  occasion,  he 
evidently  dodged  any  allusion  to  them.  He  wan  hungry, 
and  he  doubtless  did  eat  because  things  relished. 

Before  dinner  was  quite  over,  the  sky  suddenly  be 
came  overcast,  and  shutters  were  heard  swinging  vio 
lently  in  distant  chambers.  All  the  valley  below  grew 
quickly  dark  and  indistinct,  and  the  wind  here  and 
there  set  up  a  low  piercing  whistle,  rising  occasionally 
like  the  cry  of  some  one  in  distress.  A  storm  was  upon 
us  !  When  we  returned  to  the  parlor,  the  air  was  crazy 
with  the  fast-falling  snow,  carrying  the  flakes  past,  in 
great  sheets,  like  the  tails  of  wild  horses  straight  out 
13* 


298  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

upon  the  wind.  My  father  looked  at  the  thermometer, 
and  pronounced  it  6  below.  A  great  change. 

Of  course  to  descend  the  mountain  in  such  a  storm 
would  be  madness.  Our  only  course  was  to  stay  over 
night,  and  then,  perhaps,  return  in  Lady  M.'s  lumber 
sleigh.  No  one  seemed  very  unhappy  at  the  necessity 
of  staying,  and  it  was  a  great  satisfaction  now,  that  we 
had  buried  the  fires  so  carefully,  and  left  things  in  such 
order  at  Pundison  House.  Some  things  were  to  be 
done,  however,  and  Bob  was  sent  down  on  the  brown 
mare,  almost  suffocated  with  blankets  and  neck-tyers. 

Be  careful  of  the  mare,  said  my  father,  and  have  her 
well  blanketed,  and  look  well  to  Tib  :  carry  her  at 
least  three  pails  of  water  ;  and  be  careful,  sir,  how  you 
make  fires  in  the  house.  Do  you  hear  me  ?  I  say,  be 
caref — .  But  by  this  time,  Bob  and  the  brown  mare 
were  lost  in  the  storm. 

Tea  was  served  soon  after  Bob  was  despatched,  and 
the  evening  almost  flew  away  while  we  were  thinking 
what  to  do  with  it.  Talk  and  laugh  mingled  incessant 
ly,  and  great  wonderments  were  made  in  the  pauses, 
about  the  storm.  Inquiries  were  made  of  my  father,  if 
he  had  ever  known  such  a  storm  before,  at  this  season, 
— to  which  he  replied,  that  he  remembered  one  just 
such  storm,  but  it  was  more  than  forty  years  ago. 


To   THE   MOUNTAIN.  299 

The  house  being  so  high,  great  expectations  were 
had  of  Northern  Lights,  in  case  the  sky  cleared  in  time, 
but  of  this  there  was  little  hope. 

At  9  o'clock  the  great  bell  rang  again,  and  we  went 
in  to  prayers,  in  the  octagon  room' under  the  belfry. 
There  was  gathered  already  the  household  of  the  lady, 
who  read  the  prayers  herself,  as  is  her  daily  custom, — 
while  all  knelt,  save  my  father,  who  sat  in  a  big  chair 
with  his  arms  folded,  and  said  Amen,  in  a  low  voice,  at 
the  close  of  each  prayer.  Such  is  the  shrinking  delicacy 
with  which  my  father  treats  all  religious  manifestations, 
he  would  scarcely  have  said  the  amen,  if  he  had  sup 
posed  it  audible  to  any  other  than  Him  who  knoweth 
and  heareth  all  things.  It  was  rather  a  whisper  than 
a  distinctly  pronounced  Amen  ! 

After  prayers,  we  looked  up  the  thermometer  again, 
and  found  the  quicksilver  at  10.  Fires  were  accord 
ingly  made  in  the  bed-rooms,  and  as  the  day  had  been 
so  extraordinary,  all  retired  early,  save  Lady  M.  and  my 
self,  who  sat  in  the  parlor,  watching  the  storm  and  dis 
cussing,  slowly,  various  matters  connected  with  other  days 
and  other  lands;  southern  climates  as  compared  with 
ours,  and  such  like  contrasting  topics. 

It  was  nearly  1.2  o'clock,  and  the  house  was  very 
still,  when  my  father  appeared  at  the  parlor  door,  with 


800  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

a  lighted  candle  in  one  hand,  his  hat  on,  but  barefooted 
and  otherwise  lightly  clad, — and  asked  the  Lady  M. 
what  time  we  should  breakfast.  Receiving  the  informa 
tion  in  an  abstracted  way,  as  though  sleep-walking,  he 
stepped  out  on  the  piazza,  took  one  more  look  at  the 
thermometer,  and  immediately  retired. 

The  habit  of  going  about  in  this  way,  in  strange 
houses,  as  also  in  hotels,  is  one  of  which  my  father  is 
probably  unconscious,  and  arises  from  his  nightly  cus 
tom  at  Pundison  House,  of  looking  at  the  weather,  just 
before  retiring :  his  way  being  to  wait  until  he  is  par 
tially  undressed  before  he  makes  his  observations.  How 
this  barefoot  and  otherwise-windy  exposure  is  to  be 
made  consistent  with  the  extreme  care  which  he  mani 
fests  in  stepping  with  his  heavy  boots  on  ground  that  is 
only  slightly  damp,  is  known  only  to  himself. 

By  midnight  we  were  all  stowed  away,  and  the  storm 
was  sighing  itself  into  a  state  of  rest.  There  were  no 
Northern  Lights,  but  the  stars,  as  I  looked  out  for  a 
moment,  before  I  gave  way  to  sleep,  were  bright  and 
sparkling. 

Do  you  see  any  Northern  Lights?  said  T.  No, 
said  I,  but  I  see  the  heavens,  and  very  much,  I  suspect, 
as  God  made  them  in  the  day  of  their  creation.  Good 
night,  little  T.  Good  night,  Zarry.  And  so  ended 


To  THE   MOUNTAIN.  301 

our  day  on  the  mountain:  one  we  shall  not  soon 
forget. 

We  returned  the  next  morning,  in  the  great  sleigh, 
with  two  strings  of  bells,  and  went  jingling  past  Capt. 
Dander's,  in  magnificent  style.  As  we  drove  into  the 
yard  at  Pundison  House,  the  horses  were  on  a  long  trot, 
continually  doing  a  little  and  a  little  more — my  father 
crying  whoh  to  no  purpose,  apparently,  except  to  ex 
cite  them  to  a  livelier  motion.  I  remember  the  time 
when  my  father  drove  like  a  whirlwind,  but  now  he  says, 
drive  slow  ;  drive  slow.  And  as  we  get  on  in  life,  we 
are  all  more  inclined, — are  we  not,  Professor  ? — to  say 
—-drive  slow. 

But  slow  or  fast,  we  are  now,  as  the  engineers  say, 
at  the  place  of  beginning.  Good  morning,  sir,  and 
addio,  Z.  P. 


XXVI. 


March,  "61,  Up-Country. 

MY  father  was  right.     I  have  driven  too  fast. 

And  oh,  that  some  angel,  in  the  days  gone  by,  had 
continually  written  in  letters  of  fire  between  me  and  this 
our  dashing  world,  —  in  all  times  of  peril,  in  by-ways  and 
in  dark  places,  —  those  words  of  wisdom,  drive  slow, 
drive  slow. 

For  now,  —  we  must  go  on  ;  —  at  whatever  rate,  we 
must  drive  on  :  and  there  is  no  rest,  —  no  rest,  —  though 
we  go  to  wreck  and  ruin,  as  crumbling  bones  and  be 
wildered  head  attest.  In  short,  Professor,  we  are  coming 
to  a  break  up. 

The  outriders  are  about  :  outriders  of  the  long  nights, 
—  the  nights  to  come  :  nights  of  watching  and  trouble  ; 
among  the  mountains,  —  the  dark  mountains:  among 
the  strange  faces,  and  doings  still  more  strange  :  nights 


DRIVE   SLOW.  303 

to  which  the  inoruing  is  a  hymn  of  joy  and  thanks 
giving. 

And  beyond — is  Death.  Over  the  way  there, — and 
not  far, — death.  Him,  with  God's  help,  we  can  meet, 
but  I  like  not  this  company. 

Forerunners  of  evil — officious  messengers, —  Vanish  ! 

I  say  this  with  some  dignity,  but  in  a  moment  they 
are  here  again ;  and  oh  so  busy,  busy,  busy — and  for 
ever  in  that  continual  mutter  and  sneeze. 

You  will  think,  perhaps,  I  am  outlining  imaginary 
things.  Would  that  I  could  give  you  just  the  outlines. 
It  would  satisfy  you  for  a  lifetime,  even  if  you  had  been 
born  in  the  Hartz  Mountains.  Frank  knows  them  well, 
but  he  is  away  over  the  blue  water. 

They  are  about  me,  by  times,  all  day — these  ima 
ginary  (?)  voices,  but  at  night  they  come  in  crowds. 

It  is  now  approaching  the  midnight,  and  I  am  alone, 
writing  here  with  pen,  ink  and  paper.  This,  I  suppose, 
is  fact.  I  am  a  fact,  also.  I  see  myself,  the  paper  and 
pen,  the  fire  now  in  its  ashes,  the  empty  chairs  which  our 
gentle-people  left  an  hour  ago  for  their  rooms  above ; 
and  to  any  one  else  the  room  would  seem  solemn  and 
still  as  the  grave.  It  is  not.  Solemn  enough  it  is, — 
but  full  of  people.  I  could  see  them  with  slight  effort, 
but  am  careful  to  make  no  experiments.  I  have  tried 


304  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

that  in  times  past :  it  was  unpleasant.  It  is  enough  to 
hear  them,  as  I  do  now, — not  in  some  distant  chamber, 
but  here  at  my  elbow, — within  the  sweep  of  my  arm, — 
muttering  and  complaining  always  in  low  sad  tones, 
but  all  about  what,  no  man  knoweth  this  side  the  grave. 
Long,  long  discussions,  broken  with  sudden  starts  and 
pauses,  exclamations,  whistlings,  and  coughings  espe 
cially  :  but  mainly  it  is  a  low  grumbling  monotone  from 
very  unhappy  people  apparently,  who  can't  be  satisfied, 
and  are  continually  questioning  and  questioning,  and 
again  questioning,  and  objecting  for  ever  and  for  ever 
to  all  propositions  of  peace. 

I  turn  round  in  my  chair  (they  are  always  on  my 
left)  and  say  to  them,  mentally, — "  Will  you  please  stop 
for  a  few  moments,  will  you  have  the  kindness  to  be — 
quiet,  say  for  five  minutes,  (only  5  minutes)  while  I 
finish  this  letter  ?"  I  do  this  in  the  gentlest  manner, 
but— 

"  No — no — can't  stop — can't — can't — can't, — don't 
know  hoio — no — no — can't  stop." 

I  rise,  and  thunder — GET  OUT  !  SCATTER  ! 

This  frightens  them  some  (they  are  afraid  of  me  as 
death — there's  comfort  in  that) — but  in  a  moment  they 
are  here  again. 

Question.     Why  do  they  come  to  me  ?     Professor, 


DRIVE    SLOW.  805 

man  of  science,  star-gazer,  why  ?  and  why  do  they  come 
to  me  ?  I  can't  help  them.  Let  them  speak  out,  and 
above  board,  but  these  hints. — 

I  shudder  to  think,  however,  that  if  they  should 
speak  plainly,  intelligibly,  I  should  inevitably  reply: 
and  this,  carried  on  to  any  extent,  would  be — what  ? 
Speak  it  out,  Professor,  speak  it  out — no  hints  from 
you,  my  fast  friend, — it  would  be  ? madness  ! 

This,  however,  I  do  not  apprehend :  for  I  know  them 
of  old.  They  are  forerunners  of  the  long  nights,  beyond 
which,  as  I  said,  is  death.  But  let  them  come.  I  have 
driven  too  fast,  and  must  pay  the  reckoning.  One  word 
of  beauty  kills  them,  as  to  any  harm  they  can  do  me : 
that  is  to  say —  •  Addio !  Addio !  Z.  P. 


Up-Coontry,  April,  1S51. 

THE  time  of  the  singing  of  birds  has  come,  and  now,  my 
old  friend,  we  open  windows  again,  and  say  little  pray 
ers  of  thanksgiving  all  day,  that  at  last  the  winter  is 
over. 

Is  it  Spring  with  you,  Professor  ?  Do  you  wake  at 
the  first  blush  of  day  ?  Do  you  get  up  with  a  song 
in  your  mouth  ?  I  grieve  to  say,  that  with  me  there  is 
still  a  lingering  of  winter.  I  stop  not  to  inquire  into  it. 
It  is  not  well,  sir ;  at  least  it  is  not  wise, — as  we  grow 
older, — to  criticise  too  sharply  our  short-comings  of 
spirit.  I  do  not  thank  any  one  to  explain  to  me,  with 
exact  science,  the  cause  of  an  added  wrinkle,  or  of  one 
more  group  of  gray  hairs  on  my  temples.  Let  us  not  exa 
mine  too  nicely  into  particulars. 

I  have,  of  late,  two  letters  from  Frank,  which  in 


310  UP-COUNTBT    LETTERS. 

some  remote  way,  may  have  given  the  wintry  tone  to 
these  spring  days, — for  the  air  is  soft  as  April  ever  sends 
to  us.  Perhaps  it  is  this. 

You  will  see,  by  these  letters,  that  Frank  is  trying 
to  put  a  pleasant  face  upon  the  change  that  is  coming 
upon  him :  the  spring, — the  summer  that  is  before  him. 
A  summer  that  will  be  far  away  from  us,  my  old  friend, 
and  no  winter  to  track  it  with  desolation. 

Yours,  Z.  P. 


LETTER    FROM    FRANK     BR7ARS. 

March  !61.  ) 

DEAR  PUN.: 

Did  you  ever  look  on  Connec 
ticut  River  and  the  valley  from  Mount  Holyoke  ?  This 
perched-up  place  makes  me  think  of  it.  "We  are  five 
stairs  up,  and  from  this  height  look  plump  down  upon 
the  flower  gardens  of  the  Tuileries.  The  plots  remind 
me  of  that  checker-work  in  the  Connecticut  Valley. 

We  have  the  funniest  little  rooms,  with  each  one 
bed,  one  door,  one  chair,  one  window  opening  to  one 
balcony;  and  one  air  of — comfort  not  so  much  as — pro 
priety  and  taste ;  and  peculiar  all  to  this  light-hearted 
city. 


LETTER    FROM   FRANK    BRYARS.       311 

We  are  getting  systematic,  and  are  already  in  rou 
tine.  Every  morning,  as  soon  as  possible  after  the  sun 
comes  in  at  my  window,  I  spring  out  and  make  my  way 
up  the  Rue  Richelieu,  to  the  London  Tavern,  to  break 
fast.  I  go  there  to  get  a  good  cup  of  tea  and  beefsteak 
a  VAnglaise.  Then,  a  little  to  the  left,  I  come  down 
through  by  the  Palais  Royal,  and  climbing  up  to  this 
perch,  am  ready  for  the  day.  Fanny,  by  this  time,  has 
breakfasted  by  herself,  and  is  perhaps  gone  to  church. 
In  this  case,  I  sally  out  into  St.  Honore,  and  meet  the 
child  somewhere  up  by  Place  Vendome,  where  we  hire 
a  cabriolet  and  start  upon  our  travels  over  this  strange 
city.  This  occupies  us  till  about  5  o'clock,  when  we 
are  set  down  at  Numero  3  in  this  little  Place,  and  go 
up  to  the  Palais  Royal  to  dine.  There,  in  the  Orleans 
Gallery,  we  find  a  range  of  rooms  looking  down  upon 
the  court,  where  every  day  a  little  table  seems  to  be 
kept  for  us,  for  it  is  always  vacant,  though  the  room  is 
usually  pretty  full  by  this  hour.  It  is  a  kind  of  home 
to  us,  and  becoming  more  so,  every  day.  At  dinner  I 
have  been  tempted  into  a  small  bottle  of  Beaune,  and 
as  Fanny  is  rather  partial  to  it  also,  I  order  now  two 
half-bottles.  If,  after  dinner  and  wine,  I  step  into  a 
Cafe,  after  leaving  Fanny  at  our  door,  and  sip  away  ten 
minutes  more,  in  a  cup  of  cafe-au-lait,  I  seem  to  be 


312  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

built  up  into  a  tower  of  strength,  sufficient  for  all  possi 
ble  things.  Fanny  is  not  less  brave,  even  without  the 
coffee. 

The  very  day  we  arrived  here,  we  dfned  in  this  same 
way,  and  for  wine  we  drank  this  same  precious  Burgun 
dy.  As  we  returned  under  the  Arcade  to  Mew-ice's, 
where  we  were  then  staying,  Fanny  began  to  get  some 
appreciation  of  this  wonderful  place.  "  Well,"  said  she, 
looking  rather  queer  out  of  her  eyes,  "  there  certainly 
is  something  in  this  Paris  that  is  very  pleasant.  Dear 
Frank,  don't  you  think  so  ?  They  all  have  such  a  hap 
py  way  of  doing  every  thing ;  and  they  make  every 
body  so  happy — so — one  can  hardly  say  what — Je  ne 
sais  quoi,  you  know, — but,  my  dear  brother,  don't  you 
think  so  ?" 

As  I  was  slightly  boozed  myself,  I  gave,  you  may 
suppose,  a  rapturous  assent  to  all  the  charming  Fanny 
had  to  say ;  so  that  when  we  mounted  into  our  parlor, 
and  started  our  pine-cones,  and  got  our  two  sticks  of 
wood  blazing,  we  were  as  happy — as  Burgundy  could 
make  us. 

But  the  next  day,  came  the  shock  of  a  Parisian 
Sunday.  It  was  terrible.  Think  of  meeting  a  hundred 
thousand  crazy  people  in  a  great  square,  and  all  singing 
(or  as  many  as  had  throats  to  sing  with)  their  monrir 


LETTER    FROM    FRANK    BRYARS.       313 

pour  la  patrie,  and  whatever  other  lii-diddle-cliddle,  and 
diddle-de-dee ! 

If  life  were  all  one  holiday,  and  this  kind  of  fun  and 
sport  were  the  best  that  could  be  made  of  it,  one  would 
like  to  live  in  Paris. 

We  have  already  looked  about  a  little.  That  fa 
mous  Pcre  La  Chaise  is  to  me  simply  detestable.  The 
spot  is  beautiful  enough,  overlooking,  as  it  does,  the 
whole  city;  but  the  little  streets  and  chapels  and  im- 
mortels  are  in  such  children's  taste,  that  a  man,  one 
would  say,  would  not  care  to  lie  there. 

Ah  well :  I  must  soon  make  my  bed  in  some  such 
place,  and  I  suppose  it  will  not  matter  much  what  kind 
of  foolery  may  be  going  on  overhead.  Good-bye,  Pun. 
Look  for  us  now  pretty  soon.  Paris  is  to  that  smoky 
and  foggy  London,  as  light  is  to  darkness,  and  one  can 
not  but  look  up  here,  and  step  somewhat  elate ;  but  I 
know  a  land,  and  a  smartish  kind  of  a  town  on  a  far-off 
shore,  that  are  brighter  even  than  this  delectable  city. 
Oh,  never  believe,  my  people,  that  there  ever  was  or 
ever  will  be,  a  country  or  a  sky  like  Uncle  Sam's !  I 
think  of  you  (from  these  dead  countries)  as  living  in 
continual  sunshine  and  glory  :  alive  and  awake,  to  some 
purpose. 

For  a  few  days  now,  Fanny  nnd  I  have  yet  to  look 
14 


814  Up-CouNTKY    LETTERS. 

in  at  their  famous  galleries :  to  fill  our  places,  and  emp 
ty  our  demi-loutelles,  in  the  Palais  Royal,  and  then — 
and  then — Westward  Ho !  Westward  TTo  ! 

Your?, 

FRANK  BRYARS. 

From  the  second  letter,  which  I  also  inclose,  you  will 
observe  that  he  is  now  on  his  way  home.  There  came 
with  this  a  note  to  Tidy,  since  which  the  child  has 
scarcely  smiled.  She  goes  about  the  house  as  in  a 
dream,  looking  at  us  so  earnestly — that  long,  deep 
gaze — but  with  her  thoughts  evidently  far  away  on  the 
seas.  Again  and  again,  as  she  glides  about  through 
the  rooms,  she  pauses  at  the  south  windows,  and  seems 
looking  as  for  some  one  that  she  expects  will  surely 
come  to-day. 

It  is  hard  that  we  cannot  talk  with  her  about  Frank. 
The  moment  any  thing  is  said,  showing  the  least  sym 
pathy  with  her,  she  runs  away,  and  for  hours  thereafter 
will  have  a  look  as  of  fear  and  bewilderment :  a  deep, 
wild  look,  almost  as  of  madness.  How  strange  is  this, 
in  one  so  gentle  as  our  sister  Tidy  ! 

I  give  you  the  letter. 

XCMKBO  3,  FLI:B  DR  Rivot'. 

DEAR  PUN, — We  are  coming  at  last.  This  letter 
will  not  travel  much  foster  than  shall  we.  I  mint  tell 


LETTER  FROM  FRANK  BRYARS.         315 

you,  my  old  friend, — I  am  breaking  up.  Aye,  sir,  the 
story  is  about  told.  Blessed  be  Heaven,  I  hope  to  get 
me  once  more  over  the  blue  Atlantic,  and  so  look  once 
again  upon  your  face?,  before  I  die.  This  Paris  is  not 
the  place  for  me.  I  fear  me,  I  could  not  die  peaceably 
in  this  city  of  all  abominations.  I  must  see  you  all 
again,  and  hear  once  more  those  saucy  blackbirds ;  and 
then  if  God  so  wills  it,  let  me  go.  I  have  carried  this 
body  about  the  world  long  enough,  perhaps.  It  is  of 
late  rather  a  burden  to  me.  I  shall  not  be  unwilling,  I 
hope,  to  look  in  (ah  Pun,  what  an  hour  will  that  be !) 
to  look  in  upon  that  upper  life — to  be  lost  in  the  beauty 
and  glory  of  that  new  world.  Christ  have  mercy  upon 
us,  and  prepare  us  for  that  hour.  Good-bye,  my  old 
friend,  good-bye,  good-bye. 

FRANK  BRYARS. 


II. 

Jink's  Jbrriiral  nnfo 


Pundison  House,  April,  1851. 

I  SEND  you,  sir,  but  a  brief  line.  Frank  is  home  again  ; 
but  as  he  himself  intimated  in  his  last  letter,  he  will 
make  but  a  short  stay  with  us.  He  is  about  to  start 
now  on  a  longer  journey  :  a  wider  range  of  travel.  He 
is  changed  in  face  and  figure,  and  walks  with  difficulty  . 
but  he  has  his  wish,  —  to  see  us  once  more,  and  to  hear 
his  blackbirds  sing  :  and  soon  now,  some  pleasant  morn 
ing,  he  will  have  gone  on.  You  will  understand  from 
this,  sir,  why  I  have  not  written  of  late,  and  why  I  can 
not  now.  My  days  and  nights  are  given  to  Frank. 
Changed  as  he  is,  it  is  not  very  sad  to  look  upon  him, 
because  one  can  see  from  the  calmness  and  steadiness 
of  his  eye,  and  the  joy  that  is  in  it,  that  he  is  going  on 
a  pleasant  journey.  I  would  not  detain  him,  even  for  a 
day. 


FRANK'S   ARRIVAL  AND  GOOD-BYE.    317 

Tidy  left  us  the  morning  that  Frank  arrived  at  his 
house.  All  her  shyness  vanished  at  once.  She  told  us 
that  she  was  going  to  stay  with  him  for  the  rest  of  his 
days.  It  was  to  be  her  home.  Knowing  when  he  was 
to  arrive,  she  went  up  to  the  house,  and  received  him  at 
his  own  threshold.  Calm  and  happy,  and  self-possessed, 
all  her  late  bewilderment  is  over.  Hour  after  hour  she 
sits  by  his  bedside,  holding  his  thin  white  hand,  but  I 
see  no  tears  now.  Her  face  is  radiant  of  peace.  Her 
step  light,  but  elate  and  almost  commanding,  and  her 
manner  at  times,  so  high  and  rapt,  as  though  she  was 
standing  at  heaven's  gates,  and  with  gentle  force  delay 
ing  for  a  little,  the  opening  of  those  doors  that  lead  into 
the  world  of  light.  All  this,  in  so  mere  a  child,  is  new 
and  wonderful  to  us, — almost  beyond  belief. 

I  send  you  some  lines,  which  were  found  on  Frank's 
table,  a  day  or  two  since. 

They  are  written  in  a  curious  verse,  probably  of  his 
own  construction.  He  seems  to  have  amused  himself 
somewhat,  in  packing  his  thought  in  this  hard  form ; 
and  occasionally,  as  you  will  observe,  he  reverses  the 
form,  making  something  like  the  figure  of  a  vase — a 
sort  of  urn,  in  which  to  leave  the  ashes  of  his  Good- 
Bye. 


U 1 8  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 


GOOD-BYE. 

All  the  long  night  in  pain, 

Waking  or  tossing : 
Dreaming  the  same  dream  again ; 
The  same  wild  heath,  crossing  and  re-crossing: 


Or  sitting    sometimes  by  a  tropic  sea, 
Where  the  shoreward  breeze  comes  soft; 

While  like  destiny, 
The  storm-cloud  sits  aloft. 

Then  sweep  o'er  creation 
— Trembling  as  a  child — 

Ruin  and  Desolation : 
The  deep  low  thunders,  and  red  lightnings  wild. 

For  always  there  must  be 

Confusion,  after 
Any  rest  or  peace  for  me : 
Even  in  dreams,  tears  must  follow  laughter. 

Waking,  I  find  my  cold  hands  press'd  around 
My  burning  temples.    Again 
I  feel  and  hear  the  sound, 
— The  blood-beat,— in  the  brain. 


GOOD-BYE.  .       319 

This  is  not  madness  quite ;  for  still  I  know 
And  somewhat  guide  it  ever : 

This  dreamer  of  woe, 
Wandering  on  for  ever ! 

Thank  God,  these  nerves  must  rust ! 

And  perchance  this  brain 

And  bundle  of  bones  be  dust, — 

Ere  yet  the  maple  put  forth  buds  again. 

For  is  there  not  a  higher  life — not  here— 
Where  Hope  is  not  track'd  ever 

By  its  shadow, — Fear,— 
As  Night  tracks  Day  forever? 

Let  the  sweet  Morning  say:  for,  crimsoned  o'er, 
All  so  fair  it  is.  and  bright, 

As  if  nevermore, 
Would  come  again  the  Night. 

Gently  the  maple  waves  its  arms  abont, 
In  the  warm  air :  comes  the  Day 

Gladly  !  like  that  shout, 
Of  children  at  their  play. 

Let  us  sit  here,  dear  one,  beneath  this  tree, 
And  talk  of  that  blessed  home, 

"Whither  we  journey : 
That  peaceful  life  to  come. 


320  UP-COUNTRY   LETTERS. 

Oh  say  that  wo  shall  meet  again,  if  now 

This  quick  pulse  must  cease  to  play, 

And  this  fevered  brow 
From  sight  be  laid  away. 

Say  not  that  I  shall  live :  but  in  Life's  Noon, 
Bid  me  God  speed  on  my  way : 

Then  follow  thou  soon ; 
Oh  stay  not  long  away. 

Read  to  me  from  The  Book, 
And  calm  thy  spirit  there : 
I  would  see  again  the  look, 
Thy  sweet  face  ever  weareth,  after  prayer. 

So  look  on  that  last  day, 
When  the  golden  bowl 
Shall  be  broken ;  and  decay 
Shall  claim  these  earth-soiled  garments  from  my  soul. 

And  I  will  think  an  angel  from  on  high, 
Has  come  down  to  go  with  me 

To  that  bright  country, 
Over  the  lone,  wild  sea,— 

Where  is  no  trouble  more : 

Where  all  pain  shall  cease ; 
On  that  calm  and  peaceful  shore, 
Where  dwelleth  God  and  His  Angels,— Rest  and  Peace. 


III. 


TIDY,  my  child,  is  it  so  ?     Is  he  dead  ? 

She  gives  me  no  answer  ;  but  her  heart  is  throbbing 
fearfully,  and  her  lips  move,  but  what  it  is  I  do  not 
Lear. 

Yes,  he  is  dead.     Frank  Bryars  is  dead. 

Do  you  hear  this,  my  friend,  —  my  star-gazer,  —  my 
royal  Professor  ?  Dead  !  Do  you  understand  this  ? 

Ah,  no,  —  it  is  nothing  to  you.  He  is  not  dead  to 
you.  He  is  dead,  however. 

Tell  me  again,  my  sister,  —  is  he  gone  ?  Ah,  that 
word.  To  be  dead,  —  doubtless  that  is  very  bad  :  but 
gone  ! 

"  No,"  she  says,  "  he  is  not  gone,  and  he  looks  as 
though  he  were  only  sleeping." 

He  is  not  gone,  that  is  something.  Dead  !  It  is 
14* 


322  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

difficult.  I  do  not  understand  it.  Doubtless  he  is  dead, 
but  then 

Who  is  it  speaks,  to  me  ?  Some  one  is  call 
ing  to  me. 

Oh  forgive  me,  thou  blue  heaven — forgive  me,  MY 

o  '  o  / 

FATHER.     He  is  not  dead — lie  lives  for  ever ! 


IV. 


The  Parlor  in  Frank'a  House. 

IT  is  tlie  break  of  day.  Shafts  of  red  are  piercing  the 
sky  in  the  east,  and  T.  and  I  are  sitting  by  an  open 
window,  looking  out  upon  all  this  calmness  and  beauty. 
I  wonder  now  if  our  friend  Frank  is  looking  at  this 
scene.  Does  he  hear  the  blackbirds  in  the  poplars? 
Does  he  see  us  sitting  here  by  his  dead  body  ? 

With  this,  his  dead  body,  we  have  been  up  all 
through  the  cool,  dewy  night  :  T.,  with  her  head  in  my 
lap,  half-sleeping,  and  whispering  in  her  sleep. 

How  short  the  night  was  !  but  how  long  the  few 
days  seem  to  me  since  I  wrote  you  of  our  friend's  arrival 
home.  It  is  only  a  few  weeks,  and  now  he  is  gone 
again,  but  has  left  us  this  pale  likeness.  There  is  noth 
ing  sad  about  his  departure  but  this  :  all  else  is  only 
beautiful.  But  this  form  in  which  God  permitted  him 


324  UP-COUNTKY  LETTERS. 

to  appear  to  us,  must  now  be  put  away.  So  apt  as  it 
was,  and  so  identified  with  Frank  himself — all  that  we 
know  of  the  man  whom  we  called  Frank  Bryars, — it  is 
hard  to  throw  it  away  ;  to  hide  it  in  the  ground.  This 
is  hard. 

But  the  morning  goes  up  into  the  heavens;  the 
crimson  lines  fade,  and  the  silver  glory  of  day  is  over 
all.  We  will  go  now,  and  leave  our  friend  in  his  white 
robes,  until  another  morning. 


V. 

Jwtntl 


Pundiaon  House,  AprU  1851. 

THROUGH  all  tlie  heavens,  this  day  has  been  bright  and 
royal.  To  those  who  could  so  receive  it,  it  has  been  a 
happy  day.  To  me  it  has  been  a  sad  one.  It  is  strange 
that  I  should  still  linger  over  it  :  still  wish  to  give  you 
its  history  ;  its  painful  detail. 

In  the  early  morning,  a  soft  wind  came  up  from  the 
south,  and  went  playing  about,  here  and  there,  in  a 
gentle  manner,  but  all  its  tones  seemed  sad  and  mourn 
ful.  I  do  not  know  that  they  were  so,  but  so  they 
seemed  to  me.  The  garden  and  the  meadow  were  gay 
with  birds,  but  they,  too,  seemed  only  to  be  repeating 
to  each  other  some  sad  strain. 

The  funeral  was  at  10  o'clock.  By  that  time  the 
old  house  was  full  of  people,  as  also  was  the  east  pi 
azza  ;  and  groups  of  a  half  dozen  or  more,  stood  here 


326  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

and  there,  in  the  front  yard,  within  hearing  of  the  ser 
vices.  On  each  side  of  the  way,  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile, 
stood  the  plain  country  wagons  that  had  brought  the 
people  there.  Wagons  with  common  k'tchen  chairs, 
and  some  with  only  boards,  covered  with  Buffalo  robes ; 
and  occasionally  was  seen  a  one-horse  wagon ;  or  the 
old-fashioned  chaise. 

T.  and  Joy  went  up  with  me,  and  went  into  the  par 
lor.  My  father  seated  himself  in  a  large  chair  on  the 
piazza,  and  Little  Gem  and  myself  sat  down  on  one  of 
the  piazza  steps.  I  did  not  care  to  go  in,  and  I  think 
Little  Gem  did  not.  She  was  very  still  and  calm  be 
times,  and  then  suddenly  would  seat  herself  in  my  lap, 
and  begin  to  sob,  as  with  a  feeling  of  exhaustion  that 
was  almost  death  itself.  Then  stopping  again,  she  would 
step  out  into  the  young  grass,  and  getting  a  few  blades, 
would  return  and  look  at  them,  and  weave  them  into 
braids  for  me  to  examine. 

My  father  sat  very  straight  in  his  chair,  looking  out 
upon  the  meadows,  and  upon  his  countenance  appeared 
a  light  as  from  some  other  clime. 

A  hymn  was  given  out,  and  the  words  and  air  being 
well  known  to  all  the  people,  very  many  both  within 
and  without,  joined  in  it.  The  windows  were  all  open, 
and  the  voices  were  as  one.  My  father  still  gazed  doAvn 
upon  the  meadows. 


THE   FUNERAL.  827 

A  chapter  was  read  from  the  Bible,  and  the  clear 
low  tone  of  the  minister  sounded  very  kindly  in  the  still 
air.  After  a  few  remarks  proper  for  the  occasion,  a 
prayer  for  the  living,  over  the  dead,  rose  in  the  quiet 
morning,  and  went  up  into  Heaven.  How  still  it  was ! 
The  .sobbing  of  the  women,  the  checked  cry  of  anguish, 
and  the  chirp  of  the  birds  in  the  garden, — how  distinct 
were  they  all ! 

And  now  the  coffin  was  brought  out ;  friends  took 
their  last  look ;  and  the  procession  started  slowly  for 
the  grave.  There  were  few  that  did  not  go  up  to  the 
burial-ground.  Almost  all  joined  in  the  long  line,  cov 
ering  a  distance  of  more  than  half  a  mile  in  extent.  We 
rode  up  in  the  farm  wagon,  my  father  and  myself 
sitting  together.  The  Lady  Miriam  and  the  old  butler 
rode  their  horses,  side  by  side.  The  grave  levels  all 
ranks.  The  Lady  Miriam  sat  ere<*  and  stately,  and, 
like  my  father,  seemed  gazing-  into  the  distance,  as  into 
some  other  world.  In  my  lap  rode  Little  Gem,  still 
sobbing  by  turns,  and  braiding  her  grasses.  Soon  after 
the  procession  started,  the  great  bell  in  the  old  meeting 
house,  nearly  a  mile  distant,  began  to  toll,  and  as  we  ap 
proached  slowly, — our  horses  walking, — sounded  louder 
and  louder,  until,  as  we  passed,  it  became  fainter  again, 
till,  winding  about  among  the  hills,  it  died  entirely  away. 


828  UP-COUNTRY    LETTERS. 

As  we  passed  the  old  House,  Little  Gem  busied  herself 
for  a  short  time,  looking  up  at  the  bell-man,  as  he  leaned 
over  the  railing  for  a  moment,  to  see  the  great  proces 
sion  go  by.  How  little  he  looked  up  there,  but  how 
terrible  was  that  heavy  sound.  There  was  heard  only 
this  toll,  and  the  cough  and  wheeze  of  the  horses,  here 
and  there,  in  the  long  procession ;  and  the  slow  rumble 
of  the  wagons,  or  the  jingle  of  traces  in  some  short  de 
scent,  where  the  horses  broke  into  a  slow  trot.  On— 
on — on :  so  slowly,  oh,  so  slowly !  and  that  heavy 
toll! 

Looking  from  a  high  hill,  I  could  see  away  beyond 
the  foot  of  it,  and  up  the  opposite  hill-side,  and  for  a 
long  distance  on  the  plain.  So  slowly,  oh,  so  slowly ! 
Will  it  never  be  over  ?  that  my  friend  can  rest :  that 
he  may  sleep  ?  "Will  they  never  go  away,  these  people, 
that  he  may  take  Lls  rest  ? 

At  last,  the  ancient  Burial-ground  is  reached.  The 
grave  is  found,  and  down  into  its  depths,  this,  the  dust 
of  my  friend  Frank,  is  slowly  lowered.  A  little  straw  is 
thrown  upon  his  coffin, — earth  is  given  to  earth,  dust 
to  dust ;  and  while  all  the  people  raise  their  hats,  the 
minister  offers  a  prayer,  and  turning  to  the  neighbors, 
thanks  them  in  the  name  of  his  friends,  for  coming  to 
"  help  bury  the  dead  out  of  their  sight." 


THE    FUNERAL.  329 

And  so  it  is  over.  The  body  in  which  dwelt  our 
friend  Frank,  is  buried  and  laid  away,  six  feet  down  in 
the  ground.  Thank  God  it  is  well  done.  Thank  God 
it  is  over.  This  flesh  and  blood  will  trouble  him  no 
more.  No  more  wild  dreams,  my  friend :  no  more 
aches  and  pains  and  small  frettings  of  life.  No  more, — 
no  more  1 


VI. 


PunJison  TTcusr,  I'D  Country,  ) 
May,  1851.  "     ) 

WE  are  going  down  to  tlie  sea-side,  ray  old  friend,  and 
if  you  come  north,  I  beg  you  to  find  us  out.  My  father 
has  got  all  his  garden  seeds  planted,  and  is  not  unwil 
ling  to  leave  home  for  awhile. 

He  will  stay  in  the  city,  while  we  go  to  the  beach. 
Fanny  is  going  up  to  stay  with  the  Lady  Miriam.  It 
will  be  very  pleasant  on  the  mountain  ;  and  I  sometimes 
think  I  will  build  a  house  there  myself. 

You  will  not  expect  to  hear  from  me  often  now.  In 
fact,  I  cannot  say,  sir,  when  I  may  take  up  this  corres 
pondence  again.  But  write  me  all  the  same,  and  as 
usual,  tell  me  pleasant  things.  My  hand  is  heavy  now  ; 
and  my  brain  feels  light  and  clouded.  I  will  go  and 


ADDIO.  331 

talk  to  the  surf'  as  it  dashes  on beach,  and  some 

day,  God  willing,  perhaps,  we  will  talk  again  of  our  up- 
country  affairs. 

But  now,  Farewell, 

Z.    PUNDISON. 

Professor  B.,  National  Observatory,  ) 
Washington.  ) 


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